The Fireworks King
by Glorioski
Summary: George always knew there was one person that would stand with him in the sunrise. STORY COMPLETE. George/OC, rated M for sex and language. Read and review, please!
1. Travel

Hi all. A work in progress is currently before your eyes. I'm experimenting with not knowing what's going to happen, and letting it unfold as I write.

That being said, there will be some consistency to my updates.

K+ for now, but could get as high as M dependent on content.

Enjoy!

**

"Attention passengers: the next Red Line train to Alewife is now approaching."

She fastened the clasps of her bag shut with a start, having drifted into another tragic daydream. Boston seemed like a good place to get away. It was a successful hideout, to say the least. She could exist in the city, far from her home and culture, and live an alternate life to the one she had lived for the 7 years. It was so distant now, it seemed like a dream.

She switched the song on her iPod, and stood in a daze as the train approached the platform. She had almost found herself immersed in the song until she saw something very strange.

A familiar red-headed young man, hands shoved in his pockets, was staring at her from the other side of the platform. She blinked furiously, and as she suspected, the vision vanished as the train rushed in front of her eyes, and the doors swung open to allow the passengers to board.

Flustered but relatively sure of her mistake, she took a seat next to a kind-looking asian woman. She sunk into the song again, and allowed tears to well up in her eyes, though they never seemed to spill over. She was too removed from her old life to let her grief consume her like it used to.

_Stuck in reverse_.

She had quite a few stops to go. She watched the people getting on and off the train. Wondering where they were going to or coming from.

_Lights will guide you home._

_And ignite your bones._

She had always been good at observing people, and was often made fun of for it during secondary school.

Another stop. The skyline was gone. They were on the outskirts of Boston.

Almost home.

With a loud crack, he appeared to her again, out of thin air in the now-empty seat next to her.

As people gazed around in panic to see the source of the sound, he grabbed her tightly by the waist, and with another loud crack, the two disappeared in a flash.

_And I will try to fix you._

**

Every author that reviews this story, I promise that I will, in turn, review one if not more of yours.


	2. Meeting Halfway

Thanks to my one reviewer! Please try to take the time to write what you will, be it just a few words. It's greatly appreciated.

**

They slammed into the frozen ground seconds later. Without a word, she bolted away from his grasp, breaking into a run.

"Petrificus Totalus." He barely whispered, and she fell backwards in a full body bind.

She could hear him walking towards her with the measured stride he always had.

"Hi, T." He said, in the same tone he had uttered the incantation with. Her eyes found his as he sat down at her head. Despite her anger at him, and her fear of being back in the world she had said goodbye to five years ago, she couldn't help but feel the tears start again. He had aged unimaginably in those five years. He didn't look like a well-adjusted 24-year-old, and there were no longer smile lines creasing the sides of his mouth. He had been torn apart by each day he was forced to live, and being unable to blink away the wetness, she felt warm salty water streaming down the sides of her face.

"I'm sorry. When I found out you were in the States- I-" he seemed to falter, "I'm sorry I bound you." He hastily muttered the counter-curse, and her extremities relaxed. Slowly, she sat up, wiping away the tear tracks. She didn't know where they were. It looked like some field in Northern Ireland.

She stared over the vast expanse of grass stretching forlornly in front of them. She couldn't look at his face again.

"If anyone's sorry, it should be me." She spoke after a long silence, in which he played with the laces of his trainers. "I must say, I didn't think that-"

"It was last minute. Ron was talking about it, and I talked to Dad, and he set it up. We're in Belfast right now."

Another pregnant pause. They hadn't had a conversation since….well, now that she thought of it, she couldn't remember at all. It seemed so fake to ask how the family was.

"George." She began.

"It's fine," he said, eyes to the ground. "I'm not OK, but the situation…everything that came in the wake of it. That's fine."

"Mum and Dad, they're- putting on a brave face. They have for the past few years. Mum's been really great. Saying that nobody knows how I feel, and she's right. We're all experiencing something different. But-" his tormented jade eyes flicked over her cobalt ones, "I had to talk to you."

In that moment of eye contact, she understood what she had done to him by leaving, and the guilty unbearable feeling that she had betrayed him on an unforgivable level made her short of breath.

"Why are we here?" She managed to choke out, watching his strong hands pull up blades of grass.

"It's in the middle of nowhere." He answered, "And I wanted this time before I brought you back."

"I-George, I can't."

"You can. Gin's been living at home for a bit, you can borrow some of her clothes."

"I snapped my wand in half when I left." The chilly air caught on her dry throat as she spoke. "I can't live with you all. I can't be reminded of it."

"If you think it's difficult, put yourself in my shoes." For the first time, he spoke with bitterness.

Another awkward moment.

"OK." She digressed. "Then tell me, what purpose am I serving to you, or do you want me to serve, by being at the Burrow?"

He buried his hands in his ginger hair, ruffling it, but not in the playful way of his youth.

"You were my confidant. Closest to-closest to my heart after him. Maybe more so, I don't know anymore." He looked at a point somewhere past her shoulder. "I'm beginning to forget what it's like to have that closeness with someone. I don't like not having it. And I get worried you know, if I'll be able to cope much longer living life half fulfilled."

He shuddered.

"If…for a short while…you could stay with me, and just- um, talk. That would be-"

He couldn't finish his sentence. Tears were welling up in his eyes, now.

"I need someone to talk nonsense with. To comment on the weather, or how colorful the flowers are in our backyard…stay? For a little while, please Theresa?"

Her head was saying "NO", loud and resounding. But it was with her heart that she murmured "Yes."

Their eyes connected again, and this time she couldn't look down or away. She was sliding her hands over his hunched shoulders, heavy with the burden of a hard life, pulling him into a hug that seemed to silence even the quiet sounds of nature stirring around them.

And a warm presence that resided in the recesses of his chest, a presence not earthly felt for years, awoke.


	3. Back to the Burrow

Author's Note: From this point on, with the exception of spells, dialogue in italics indicates memories and/or flashbacks.

Thanks for the reviews!

**

"They're here."

Ginny peered out the curtains, before opening the door and walking up the gravel walk way to meet George and Theresa at the gate. The air was brisk, it being early November. But that's the way Ginny liked it: the comfort level of your body oftentimes could take your mind off other things. Wrapping her arms close to her, she squinted up at the dark figures nearing the gate, and smiled as the soft glow from the Burrow's kitchen windows cast their faces into light.

Ginny found it hard to look George directly in the face anymore. He was consistently sad and distant, and any and all spark was gone. Her favorite brother was reduced to nothing, yet he continued to put on a brave face about it, which was, if possible, even more heartbreaking. So in this moment, she focused on Theresa, who looked the same. Perhaps her hair was longer, and her face thinner. Some of the sparkle in her eyes had dulled since last they saw each other, but from the way she was holding tight to George's hand as they opened the gate, Ginny could tell that her heart hadn't changed.

When her eyes fell upon Ginny, Theresa opened her arms and hugged her with gusto.

"Hey girl." Ginny said, peering over at her brother, who had an uncharacteristically calm look about him. The girls broke apart, and Theresa stared at Ginny, her eyes watering.

"Ginny, I'm sorry I-"

"No apologies from you tonight: mum has already made that quite clear." She gave the older girl a reassuring squeeze on her arm. "C'mon inside, dinner's almost ready."

She knew that things would be awkward: this was unexpected for all of them, and when George had suggested it at lunch, silence had greeted him. However, this was proving to be sufficiently less chilly than Ginny had imagined, which could only be a good thing.

"You can sleep in Ron's room: he's staying with Harry in London. But the lot are coming for dinner tonight. And you can borrow anything you need from me. Really."

"Thank you." And the tiniest of smiles appeared on Theresa's face.

They were on the threshold.

"Go on." George goaded, as Theresa hesitated and turned to look at him. "They won't bite, I promise."

"_What if they don't like me, George? I've never encountered Wizarding parents before…"_

_He laughed, slinking his hand around her waist as they walked, and pressing his lips against her brow. "Well, they didn't even set the ghoul on Phlegm, so I wouldn't worry."_

_At the door, she moaned, hesitating._

"_Go on…they won't bite…"_

She felt her eyes ungloss, and shaking off the fragmented memory, stepped inside the warm Weasley kitchen.

Percy was sitting at the scrubbed kitchen table with a steaming mug of tea. He was wearing a hand-knitted sweater, which Theresa recognized from their school days. Mrs. Weasley was drying her hands on her apron, and let out a cry as she caught a glimpse of the newcomer.

"Theresa, darling." She said, bustling over to her, with arms outstretched. Mrs. Weasley's bone breaking hugs had always been a favorite of Theresa's, and she tried to ignore the new lines forming in Mrs. Weasley's brow, and the very prominent streak of gray hair now interspersed with her red curls.

"Let me look at you…you haven't changed a bit! I must say I was surprised when George mentioned that he was going to get you, but we're delighted. Do you plan on staying long?" Her question was not one asked out of exasperation.

"However long it takes." Theresa answered simply, but with a meaningful tone in her voice, that Mrs. Weasley picked up on immediately.

"Oh yes, of course dear. The longer the better, as we say in this house! Unless we're talking Bill's hair, but- losing battle, that. Anyway, you can take Ron's old room, if you want to get settled…Arthur's working late tonight, so he won't be home for dinner-"

"Theresa." Percy came up behind her and gave her a hug as well, and a polite peck on the cheek. "Fantastic to have you with us again."

"Thanks, Perce." She replied, smiling at both him and Mrs. Weasley. She could tell that Percy had significantly changed since she had gone: it seemed for the better.

"Harry, Ron and Hermione will be here soon, and then we'll eat. Bill and Charlie are off working, but they send their love." Mrs. Weasley gave Theresa a warm smile as she ushered her towards the staircase. When they were out of earshot, they continued.

"I want you to know that what you're doing for George is extremely thoughtful, and I honestly didn't think you'd agree to come." She said in a hushed tone, hurrying with Theresa up the stairs. "He's been in a right state since, well- since it happened, but he's gotten worse, and I don't know what to do…"

Mrs. Weasley looked away, and Theresa could sense deep sadness for her aforementioned son in the lines on her face.

"Mrs. Weasley, I feel awful for leaving, I was, and still feel like such a coward, and-"

"Don't talk like that, you're here now, and that's what matters." They had arrived at Ron's room, and Mrs. Weasley busied herself straightaway with straightening the pillows and clearing floor space. "And I don't want to hear any apologies either, young lady. We've always wanted you to be part of this family, and…well, that feeling hasn't changed."

There was a pause as she opened the windows to let in some fresh night air.

"Come down when you're ready, dear. The others will be here any minute." And with a loving smile and small squeeze of the hand, she left the room.

Theresa stared after her for a bit, then sunk down onto the bright orange bedspread and heaved a great sigh. She inhaled. The smell of good food, November air, and gunpowder wafted under her nostrils. This was what she remembered the Burrow always smelling like.

She wondered why she really couldn't formulate an opinion on the method with which she had arrived at the Burrow. She contributed this mind-blockage to shock.

Minutes later, the door creaked open, and George appeared from behind it.

"Want to come help me set the table?" he asked.

She smiled at him.

"Yes. And I love your mother."

"Yeah, she's the best." And he gave her a wan smile in return. It was, as she observed, a start.

They trudged down the winding stairs, hearing new voices from the kitchen. The others must have arrived.

"Oh, by the way: Ron and Hermione are engaged." George murmured to her as they entered the kitchen. She didn't have time to respond, as the youngest Weasley boy had just strolled up to Theresa with a grin on his face. He looked tired.

"Hey there, T." He said, and she received yet another Weasley hug. Peering beyond Ron, she saw a beaming Hermione and Harry.

"Hi, Ron. My, you all have changed so much!"

And it was true. Hermione's hair was sleek, and pulled back into a low ponytail. She had the makings of bags under her eyes, but she didn't seem as tight laced as she used to be, which Theresa could tell just by the way she held herself now. A delicate and beautiful ring gleamed on her finger. Harry seemed to have grown another 4 inches, still not as tall as Ron and George, however, and he had a peaceful look about him that could only mean he had left his old life behind him.

"It's good to see you again." He said in his low voice, extending his hand as if to shake hers, but ultimately pulling her into another hug.

"George! Take Theresa and set the table, the food's hot NOW!" Mrs. Weasley called from the back of the kitchen. The two exchanged looks before going to the cutlery drawer.

It was only after George had conjured up some tablecloths and place settings, and Theresa was going around placing forks and knives at every place, the Mrs. Weasley spoke again.

"You can use magic for that sort of thing." She chided, just trying to remind Theresa that she didn't have to take so long.

"She doesn't have her wand anymore." George said to his mother, now making the plates fly onto their respected placemats.

"Oh! Sorry Theresa, I didn't realize. Why don't you grab a spare from the box in the living room?"

"A…spare? You have spare wands?" Theresa spoke quizzically to George, who nodded.

"Ron stole some off of Snatchers, and Harry had a few in his pocket after the battle, so we just kind of kept them." He led her into the living room to a small bookcase wedged haphazardly between two bigger ones, and pushed aside a few books.

"Here it is. Take your pick."

She looked at the shoebox he offered to her, and opened the cover. Inside were four wands. A short dark one, and three long light ones.

She picked up the first. Blackthorn.

"_Reparo"_ she mumbled at a torn ottoman behind her. Slowly, the spell shot from the wand and clumsily repaired the tear.

"Not that one." She said, picking up the crooked-looking birch wand.

"_Accio Hat stand." _The summoned object drifted lazily over to her.

"Just as well. We think that one was Bellatrix's." George smirked. "Two more."

She picked up the second shortest wand, and with a wave, Banished the hat stand back to its original place. Once again, it seemed to move too slowly.

"Last chance." She muttered, as she took out the longest and lightest wand.

"_Avis!"_ and several perfect yellow finches burst from the tip of the wand, perching themselves on the bookcase. She vanished them, and they disappeared with a pop.

"This one will do the trick." She nodded. The handle had grown warm beneath her fingers as she slipped it into her pocket. She looked up at George, who had a strange look about him. It was like a bright, genuine smile was fighting to grace his face, but couldn't.

"That's Fred's old wand."

**

Read and Review! As I said, all authors who review this story will receive one in return.


	4. Nighttime Blues

Thanks to those who take the time to read, and review, this story. I appreciate everything.

Chapter Three starts now. Enjoy 

Once again, anything in italics, with the exception of spells, is a past memory, or a flashback.

**

Theresa's eyes took a second to focus in the pitch black room. She had heard barely audible whimpering coming from across the hall, and heard creaks on the floor boards from below her. She'd always been a light sleeper, so she took the time to investigate.

She picked up the wand from her nightstand. "_Lumos"_ she muttered, and she made her way through her open door to the source of the noise. Coming up the stairs was Mrs. Weasley, in her nightclothes, also with her wand lit.

"It's George." She mouthed to Theresa.

"OK…you can go back to bed, Mrs. Weasley, I'll take care of it." The girl responded, grasping the hand of her elder.

"…If you're sure." Mrs. Weasley whispered, with a worried glance toward George's bedroom. "You need your rest, and he could be up all hours…"

"I'm sure. I'll stay with him. I'm wide awake as it is."

With a silent agreement, Mrs. Weasley left Theresa on the landing, and headed down back to bed.

Now alone, she went over to George's door, pressing her ear against it before pushing it open and padding across the floor to where his huddled form twisted under the sheets.

"Ah…no…but…" He mumbled as she took a seat in the chair beside him, sitting Indian style and holding her wand above his head. His bangs were sweaty, and his eyebrows contracted. She brushed his bangs away from his brow with a delicate sweep.

At the slight contact, his eyes shot open and he looked around in a panic.

"Where's…?"

There was a quiver in his voice that could have cracked ice.

He sat up, looking around the room before letting his head sink low. He place his elbows on his knees and his hands in his hair. He was shaking.

She scooted to the end of his bed, and sat watching him.

There wasn't a sound in the room except for the ticking clock and his heavy breathing. Then:

"I dream about him every night, but usually I can let it go." He murmured, reaching out in the semi-darkness for her. She grasped his hand and held it tight. "But this one was just terrible." There was an awful, gut-wrenching tremble in his voice that she didn't like at all.

She conjured a warm facecloth from nowhere and leaned forward to place it on his forehead.

"Thanks, T." He said, taking the damp cloth and burying his face in it.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to." She said finally. He shook his head, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

There was a long moment of silence, before: "We were kids again, and playing on our toy broomsticks, and…and he fell. Scraped his knee. I tried to heal it for him, but he just bled more and I couldn't do anything about it and he was covered in blood, and I just stood there." He was talking rapid fire, like if he didn't say it, it would only plague him longer. He was ripping off the metaphorical band-aid.

"And I had that same hopeless feeling I had the day he died…like I should've tried harder to save him, even though I couldn't. Because I was the more responsible one of the two of us."

"The dreams are the worst, because you have hope again for those moments…then you realize that it's your mind playing tricks on you again." He said, sinking down onto his pillow again. "I feel so easily manipulated."

She moved back to the chair.

"Do you want me to stay with you?" She asked, and, for the first time since she arrived, he gave a small laugh, albeit a tired one.

"I feel like a 5-year-old asking you to do that." He smirked, tears glistening in his eyes as he looked up at her. "But maybe for a little while… that would be, er, nice."

"Do you want to talk?"

"Sure."

"About what?"

"Well…what's it like in Boston?"

She smiled.

"Boston? Um, it's kind of like a really small London, I suppose. Dirtier though. But it's so easy to walk the city, and you can find really beautiful things everywhere. Like little cobblestone alleyways and such."

"What's the food like?"

"Fatty but delicious. But that's America for you."

He once again gave a small laugh.

"I sit along the banks of the Charles on their Independence Day…watch the fireworks. They have such boring fireworks compared to your Wildfire Whiz-bangs. It's a bit sad really," she chuckled, and continued. He was watching her carefully. He look relaxed and not as anxious as he had a second ago. "I got by completely without magic. Subway systems are awful there, and everything smells like Chinese cabbage once you get downtown."

She watched him as he picked at a hole in his pillowcase, his eyelashes wet.

"But you like it."

"Yeah I do. It's not as crowded there. It's a good place to clear your head, I guess. Or at least, you can find places that will help you clear your head."

"What did you do while you were there?"

"A lot of theater. It was nice to get back to it…after not doing it for so long. Had a job as a receptionist at a law firm, too. Dull work that was."

"Theater…oh yeah…that's where you pretend to be someone else, right? I could get into that, I think."

She spoke cautiously.

"It's actually such a mind game, because to do it successfully, you either have to be 100% comfortable with yourself, or not comfortable at all. There's no middle ground. It's a nice escape, though."

They talked in that manner for a while. She watched the bright red sun appear just over the orchards, and closed her eyes as her face was bathed in sunlight.

She inhaled deeply, and looked down at George, seeing his eyes were half-lidded.

"You need to make up that sleep."

"I know I do, but I'm worried."

She stood, taking the facecloth and wrapping her robe tight around her nightshirt.

"How about I whip you up a Draught, and I'll make us some breakfast while I'm at it?" She got up and opened the four-paned window, trying to ignore the now-conspicuous barren half of the room. There was dust collecting on Fred's old desk.

George sat up "Can I really say no to that?" He was surprised by how hungry he was.

"No, not really. How do peach muffins sound?"

"Peachy."

"That was awful." She giggled, going to the door and looking back at him. The sun cast his face into shadowed relief, and it alarmed her to see how dead his eyes really looked in the daylight. "I'll be back soon."

She eased her way down the stairs, amazed how she remembered which ones creaked. By the sleepy nature of the house, she wagered a guess that nobody was up yet.

She entered the kitchen.

"_Fred, I swear to God, you so much as touch me with that, and I'll-"_

_He was chasing her around the kitchen table with a lit firework._

"_George, help me!"_

"_It's not dangerous, I promise!" Fred roared, heaving with laughter as the firework whirred with high-pitched squeaks. George could barely move from laughing so hard. With a great lunge, Fred touched the non-burning part of the firework to Theresa's skin, and instantly, it erupted into brightly-colored gerbera daisies._

_George collected them, grinning at Fred, and presented them to her._

"_See?" Fred smirked. _

She shook her head like a dog trying to get rid of water, and poked her wand under the teakettle, lighting a fire. Coffee would be a good start. She searched under the stove for a muffin tin and, finding one, filled the tiny molds with a thick batter that poured from the tip of her wand. With another flick, she set the kitchen knives to work chopping up a few peaches, and found the coffee in one of the cupboards. She magicked a few sausages into a fry pan, and they sizzled and popped in an appetizing manner. Her stomach growled.

"Theresa dear?" Mrs. Weasley had come in and given her a good morning hug.

"Oh! Hello Mrs. Weasley. I'm just making some breakfast for George."

"He didn't keep you up all night, did he?" She looked worried as she found the French press for Theresa and plunked it on the counter, eyeing the younger girl.

"No well, not exactly. We talked about other stuff. Kept his mind off things, you know?"

Mrs. Weasley pursed her lips.

"At this rate he'll run you ragged by tomorrow afternoon."

Theresa was now summoning a cauldron to her and reading the directions for a Dreamless Sleep Draught. She thought before she spoke, adding ingredients and not taking her eyes off the page.

"I'm OK with it, really. I need to kind of still get assimilated as it is, and…it seems he's doing the same."

"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Weasley as she sat down at the table.

"I think he's starting to get used to the idea of not having Fred around."

Mrs. Weasley looked skeptical.

"Well, he's not really accepting it, but he's coming to terms with the reality. He understands that there's no changing the past at least."

There was silence as she conjured plates and mugs, and stirred the Draught. The muffins were turning a delicate golden brown in the stove.

"For a while, I thought he was going crazy." Theresa heard Mrs. Weasley whisper. "He didn't eat for two solid weeks, maybe more. Drank a glass of water every now and then to keep breathing. I'd find him close to hypothermia in the shower, sitting on the floor, shaking. He'd go on long walks and not come back till the next morning. Mumble to himself under his breath. He didn't smile for a year or two at least, I'm convinced. I can't stand seeing any one of my children like that, especially-" she hiccupped. There were tears in her eyes.

"And…and I miss him so much." She added as Theresa sat down next to her and grabbed her hand. "Every day."

"I can't imagine…"

"No, no one can until it's happened to them." Mrs. Weasley wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her robe. "The death of a child is something I wouldn't wish on the worst people in the world." She looked at Theresa, silent for a moment, then gave her a watery smile. "They were my boys, you know? It's like I lost both of them…they used to make me laugh so hard I couldn't move. Now I can't move because I'm crying so hard."

"You might be the catharsis I've been looking for." She added quietly. Theresa opted for a change of subject.

"Would you like some coffee Mrs. Weasley? Or a muffin? I'm going to bring a tray up to George with the Draught and some food, but I made plenty for everyone."

"What? Oh! Yes, yes, that would be lovely. And you can just leave the leftovers on the counter. The others won't be up for a bit now, but they'll devour those the minute they see them."

Theresa poured a hot cup for Mrs. Weasley, and gave her a warm muffin.

"I'll be back in a few." She murmured to Mrs. Weasley as she put muffins, sausages, coffee, and the Draught onto a tray and carried it up the stairs.

She found George out of bed, and he was staring at the sunrise. When she entered, he turned to her.

She put the tray down and went over to him.

"Come eat." She whispered, grasping his shoulder. He looked down at her.

He encircled her with his arms, hugging her tightly and with much love. She rested her head on his chest. His heart was pounding. This embrace was full of purpose.

And when at last they broke apart, they sat on the floor and ate together, sunlight and fresh air bursting through the window.


	5. Some One on One

I will apologize in advance for some of the overt cheesiness towards the end, but it has to happen at some point, right?

Rating has gone up to T. Will definitely make the jump to M eventually, but not for a while.

Keep reading, and keep reviewing!

**

Arthur Weasley sniffed the air, and smiled sleepily as the smell of freshly baked muffins tingled in his nostrils. He heard his stomach growl. He hadn't eaten since lunch yesterday, and the perfect remedy to that seemed to be whatever smell he was currently experiencing.

He rolled out of bed, stepped into his slippers, and grabbed his dressing gown, shielding his eyes from the blinding sunlight that was streaming through the window.

He made his way down the winding staircase, hearing the soft feminine voices emerging from the kitchen.

"Morning ladies!" He greeted them. Entering the kitchen, he saw his wife and Theresa with cups of coffee in their hands, and clearly enjoying a spirited conversation.

"Hello Mr. Weasley." Theresa got up and gave him a hug. He had always found her fascinating, seeing as she was Muggle-born.

"Theresa, you're looking as lovely as ever, it's a delight to see you!" He said, spying the muffins behind her and sidling over to grab a few and put them on a plate. "I'm absolutely starved. They don't give you much in that awful cafeteria, no matter how hard you work! But still…what are you all up to?"

"Theresa was telling me what she and George have planned to do today." Said Mrs. Weasley. She sipped her coffee and gave Theresa's hand a squeeze.

"Oh really? And what is that?" Asked Mr. Weasley, taking a bite from his muffin.

"I thought we'd go fishing. It's something people do to escape for a bit. It's very relaxing."

"Fishing? Is that very dangerous?"

"No, no, not at all. You sit in a boat, with a string tied to a piece of wood, and wait for fish to come and bite the string."

Mr. Weasley looked very pleased, "almost like a game, isn't it? If you both have fun this time, do invite me to the second round, won't you? Where is George, come to think of it? And Ginny and Percy?"

"Well, George is out with a Dreamless Draught that Theresa made for him," Mrs. Weasley explained, sending their empty dishes into the sink, "and I'm letting Ginny and Percy have a bit of a lie-in. It is a Saturday after all."

Mr. Weasley nodded in agreement "I don't know why I'm up so early as it is, but I smelled the peach muffins, and I simply HAD to have a taste." He chewed his last bite, swallowed, looking contemplative, then asked, "George have a rough night again?" His tone was measured and quiet, and his smile disappeared.

"Yes…but this girl right here stayed with him all night." Mrs. Weasley gestured to Theresa.

"He had a bad dream. But we talked through it, and we talked about other things for a long time. I think in some capacity I took his mind off things. For a little while, anyway."

Mr. Weasley stirred milk into his coffee. "Thank you for tending to him. He needs someone who was with him when…well, you know."

He sighed.

"Anyway…Molly, since I'm up…I'm headed to Diagon Alley this morning, got a call from Archer last night said something about fishy business next to Madam Malkin's. I'll get it sorted out in a jiffy and be back for lunch."

"Alright dear." Mrs. Weasley got up, pulling her dressing gown close as she started up the stairs. "And Theresa, if you want to go back to bed, that's fine. I'll let the others know that you're asleep."

"Actually, Mrs. Weasley I was wondering if you could tell me where Fred's grave is. I'd like to visit it."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mr. Weasley's coffee cup pause on its way to his mouth, but only for a moment. Mrs. Weasley looked simultaneously taken aback, saddened, and touched.

"You'd like to- well…he's buried out in the orchard. We thought originally in the churchyard in Ottery St. Catchpole, but we weren't really from that village, so to speak." She gave Theresa a listless smile, which the girl understood all too well, "you can't miss it."

With that, she climbed the stairs, a bit more laboriously than she had the previous night.

"Well Miss Medder, I'm afraid I've got to dash as well." Arthur spoke, shaking Theresa out of her haze that she had been in since Mrs. Weasley last spoke. He stood from the table and banished his coffee cup into the sink. "But I'll see you at lunch, yes?"

She grinned, "Of course. Have a good day." He gave a quick wave as he exited the kitchen, taking the stairs two at a time to get ready.

Heaving an almighty sigh, and flicking her wand so that the dishes in the sink started to wash themselves, she resigned to the fact that she was not going to be getting any more sleep that day. Climbing the stairs that Mr. Weasley had just ascended, she stopped off at the second floor, where Ginny's bedroom was.

So as not to disturb her, Theresa eased Ginny's door open with caution, and caught a glimpse of the redhead buried under her covers.

This family was too good to her.

She tiptoed over to Ginny's dresser, which she was welcome to "take anything from." She selected a pair of jeans, and a long-sleeved T-shirt. With her choices made, she slunk back out into the hallway, closing the door behind her.

"I really need a shower." She mumbled to no one in particular. From the sound of it, the bath on the second floor was currently occupied by Mr. Weasley, so, climbing two more flights of stairs, she found the fourth floor bathroom free and available.

Minutes later, as she let the warm water cascade down her back, she ruminated.

"_You guys have to keep it down before all of Gryffindor Tower hears your escapades."_ _Fred sniggered as Theresa slumped in a chair next to him, her hair still wet. _

"_Yeah, well. Tell that to George. I try to be as quiet as possible, but there's really no stopping him."_

"_Clearly." _

"_Oh, you know what I meant!"_

"_Regardless, designate a shower so I don't get the one coated in Sin."_

_George took a seat next to Theresa._

"_What are we talking about?"_

"_Our sex life." She responded, raising an eyebrow in Fred's direction, who mimicked her. She pursed her lips, but ultimately had to smile. _

"_Oh. Well, don't talk about it too much. This arse probably wanks off to you."_

"_That is something you will never know, bro." Fred smirked, getting up and stretching. His lanky figure elongated by about another 4 inches as he did so. "Well, I'm off to bed. Please don't miss me."_

"_When we're apart, my heart beats only for youuuu!!" George sang in an annoying sing song voice. Fred whacked him before bounding up the stairs. He turned to Theresa._

"_I'm…bored." He said, the beginnings of a naughty smirk gracing his face. Leaning down to her level only slightly, he placed a slow kiss on her lips. She always felt like a human firework when he kissed her like that. When they broke apart, he continued, whispering low in her ear "How's about we kick Lee and Alicia out of the Room of Requirement and-"_

"_REALLY, George?! You can't wait a half hour? Honestly…there is such a thing as sleeping, you know." She shook her head, laughing._

She took the soap out of the dish and vigorously scrubbed her face. Five years it had been since she had been with George in that capacity. It seemed so weird now. Like a dream.

She shampooed her hair, and let the suds wash out over her face. She inhaled. Lavender. That was always her favorite.

"And his." She said aloud. It was amazing how little she had thought about their schooldays since she had arrived. It had all been about the Weasleys, their family, where they were now, and most importantly, how she could best help George. Yes, she thought, they had grown up. Long ago had they departed from being merely horny teenagers eager for a few seconds pleasure.

Granted, she reasoned with herself, they were pretty awesome seconds.

Five minutes later, she stepped out of the shower, toweled off, pulled her hair into a messy bun, and donned her clothing. She really had to get to Diagon Alley, or at least Charing Cross Road, to buy some decent clothes and spare Ginny from having half a wardrobe.

She descended the stairs, and took a hand-knitted jumper from the hook in the hall. She had always liked the scratchiness of Mrs. Weasley's jumpers. For one reason or another, that gave them more charm.

She slipped on her flats, and strolled out the front door.

To get to the orchards, you had to walk all the way around the house, past the gardens, and climb a gently sloping hill. Once you reached the peak, the ground spread flat again, and there was a large clearing surrounded by twisted apple and orange trees. The clearing seemed to stretch on for miles, and when the sun rose, it hit directly over the orchards.

"_OK, you absolutely cannot divulge this knowledge to anyone until the opportune moment." Fred mumbled to her. They were walking over the hill to the orchards, Fred holding a broom in one hand. _

"_Not even to George?"_

"_Well, he knows naturally." Fred said, a smirk spreading across his face. _

"_I figured."_

"_Anywho…as I was saying, not a soul. See this tree here?" They had reached the clearing. Fred was pointing to a particularly twisted tree. It looked very old. There was something extra magical about it. _

"_Very clearly."_

"_This is my favorite tree."_

"…_Is that the big secret?"_

"_What do you think?"_

"_I'm guessing not."_

"_Then, dearest soon-to-be sister in-law, you are correct." Fred tapped a branch with his wand. _

_Instantly, a space appeared in the trunk on the tree. The hole opened wider, until it was large enough to admit a fairly large person._

"_C'mon in."_

_She stepped into the great center of the tree. She looked around. Newspaper clippings were stuck to every inch of the wood inside. In a corner, there were sufficient provisions for a good few months. As the room grew even bigger, she saw several beds shoved in a corner._

"_What's-"_

"_We're going to use this as a hideout for any and all of our friends who need it. We haven't told mum yet, but we figure it will come in handy, considering how we're kind of so linked to Harry…and the fact that we're blood traitors and love all you Muggle-borns." _

_Theresa took a seat on the earthen floor. Fred followed suit._

"_That's a really noble thing you two are doing."_

"_Yeah…well, I'm not one to brag, but we are pretty bold, daring, and handsome. Well, I'm smarter and better-looking."_

"_Oh please, continue."_

_He beamed. _

_George came in, clutching his broomstick. He too, was smiling. _

"_Showing her the hideout?" He took a seat next to Theresa._

"_I figure if both of us die tomorrow, somebody in the house has gotta know about it.."_

_There was a nervous silence. _

"_Be careful, both of you." Theresa finally said, grasping George's hand, and looking pointedly at Fred, desperation in her face. "I know you all trust Moody, but if this plan fails…"_

"_It won't." George said determinedly. _

She had laughed hard that afternoon, she recalled. The twins had taken turns dive bombing each other for her viewing pleasure, and pretending to suffer nasty deaths by the fault of Quidditch balls. Twenty-four hours later, she had cried over George, as he lay unconscious, covered in blood, one of his ears missing.

Fred had been speechless.

She climbed the hill. It was only around nine. Frost lay on the ground still, and the sun, while higher than before, hit her face head on.

She had an idea as to where Fred was buried, and she followed that intuition. Sure enough, as she neared the great old oak, its trunk and branches twisted and full of character, she saw the headstone.

She wasn't exactly sure what emotions she would experience when she finally got there, but still, she was surprised that a lump started forming in her throat as soon as she saw the tree. Her gaze drifted to the short inscription on the headstone.

Fred Weasley

1978-1998

Son, Brother, and a Brave Man

Stop Crying, You Sods.

She snorted in spite of herself.

At the base of the stone, where it protruded from the ground, there lay a moving picture. It was a shot of the twins, Fred with his arm around George's neck. They looked like they were up to something. As she stared down at the photo, picture Fred raised his eyebrow and smirked at her, while George bumped him with his hip so he fell over.

Once again, she laughed.

"Hey Freddie." She spoke, feeling just a bit foolish. She sat down in front of the headstone, her chin in her hands. "I miss you."

She was so angry with the fact that she couldn't seem to stop the tears. Come to think of it, this had been a problem for her ever since she first laid eyes on George a day ago.

"I figure you're somewhere right now laughing at me for being such a blubbering idiot. At least that's what I like to think…There are probably better things to do wherever you are than 'watch over me', though." She looked around, then re-focused her attention.

"He's having a tough time."

She hung her head. She couldn't speak anymore. A strange warm wind was hitting her. For November, it was almost tropical.

For a while, she sat without moving. Just mulling over things in her head. It was strange sitting on this earth, staring at the name etched so finally into the granite stone in front of her. It didn't really register that that was Fred Weasley's name. Not the one she knew, anyway.

"I remember…" she started slow, "our first meeting. I didn't know there were two of you for weeks. It was like I was going crazy. You'd…keep switching off. Until I realized that you were twins." She laughed at the memory.

"You were so proud that you had fooled me so completely, and I was so…mad? I don't know, maybe not mad, but definitely embarrassed. Angelina couldn't look at me without laughing for days after that."

"And THEN, once I did realize you were twins, you'd always…pretend to be the other one: 'He's not George, I'm George, isn't it obvious…blah blah blah.' Terrors. But somehow, I considered you my friends, and it seemed that you two thought I was pretty cool, too. Even though I couldn't play Quidditch."

She was surprised to realize that her eyes were dry. Sounds of trees rustling in the now chilly breeze made the area seem so serene.

"You must hate me for what I did to George. I don't know what happened, I just panicked. I was…I am, rather, a coward. And I know you hated that in people. Muggle-born or not, there was no excuse for leaving."

"I'm sorry." She said in a whisper. "I'm sorry I betrayed the most important person in your life. The most important person in my life, too. All because I couldn't deal with the reality of your death."

She shook her head at herself.

"It was selfish, too. My own comfort level was more important that someone who actually needed me…and in that moment, when his need was the greatest, I left."

As dramatic as it sounded coming out of her mouth, it needed to be said, to be out in the open air. Never had she spoke of the events five years past, and to verbalize those events now felt good.

And suddenly, she saw that day so clearly in her mind's eye. A day she had been trying to block from memory for the longest time.

"May 2nd, 1998." She spoke, picking up the photo that lay on the ground.

She looked long on the moving picture in her hands, before replacing it, getting to her feet, and dusting her bottom off. Pulling Fred's wand from inside her pocket, she swept it slowly through the air. Bright yellow and pink gerbera daisies blossomed into view in midair. Taking them, she placed them over the gravesite. And as she turned to leave, she whispered.

"I will make him better. I promise, Fred."


	6. Therapy

Continue reading, it's going to start picking up soon.

**

"Has he been to Diagon Alley? Worked in the shop?"

"No. He hasn't really been anywhere since Fred died. I mean, we used to have to get him away from the Leaky Cauldron, because it could've gotten dangerous."

Ginny and Theresa were sitting side by side, shucking corn for dinner.

"But no…Ron keeps trying to bring up the idea, but George won't really hear of it. He usually will just leave the room."

"The idea's probably too daunting."

"I think on top of the obvious, he's also maybe a bit worried that the products won't sell now that their marketing has changed. It was like a double act, when they would sell stuff...well, you remember that."

"Do I ever."

Ginny laughed, clearly remembering those spectacles her brothers would put on in the Gryffindor common room, and Theresa chuckled as well, as the shockingly vivid memories flooded her brain.

She continued to shuck the corn, reveling in its sweet smell.

_He looked warily on as George swallowed the orange sweet._

"_I don't think you should try that yet. The dosage-"_

_And George vomited spectacularly on Theresa, who rather than shrieking or even looking disgusted, has a rather bemused look on her face._

"_Could use some tweaking."_

"Yeah, they were the limit." Ginny mused, rubbing her gloved hands together.

It felt weird to hear that phrase in the past tense.

"Gin, I was thinking of maybe going into Diagon sometime tomorrow, to buy a few things…mostly clothing, and we should make a day out of it. How would you feel about accompanying me?"

"Of course! I've actually been saving up to buy a new Broom Servicing Kit for Harry's Christmas gift, so I can buy it then. Oooh, fun girl's day…" she smiled.

"Speaking of…what's the deal with you and Mr. Potter?"

"Well, me and Mr. Potter are doing pretty well."

"Are you together?"

"Yes." She was blushing just a little, which made Theresa only prod her further.

"So…how's it going?! Are you serious, getting married, having his babies??"

Ginny whacked her playfully, then resigned to the corn again.

"We're pretty serious right now…we've been dating for almost three years."

"Yeah, I saw you two canoodling at dinner last night. That was cute, and only slightly puke-worthy."

It felt good to have a conversation about normal things, Theresa felt. And she had always like talks with Ginny. They usually inspired interesting conversation.

"Why are we even doing this? Can't we just tap the corn with our wands, and they'll shuck themselves?"

"We could, but then we'd be missing out on hard labor." Ginny took this as an answer, and immediately tapped the ears of corn, which shot out of their husks like bullets from a gun.

Theresa looked at the yellow ears spread haphazardly around the yard.

"That takes care of that!" The girls laughed as they stood to collect the corn from the yard.

"OK, riddle me this." Theresa began. "I think George might start to feel better if he could get into a more normal routine. I'm talking about a routine that would have previously involved Fred. So, living on his own, working at the joke shop, associating with old school friends besides me…do you think that's a good idea? Not that it hasn't been tried before, but…"

Ginny shrugged. "Yes, but it'll have to be taken slow. Like, in short bursts."

"Right, because if I just take him over to Wizard Wheezes, that could be the end of everything." Theresa agreed, "No, I'm thinking starting really, really small. Like perhaps taking the brooms out of the closet and playing a bit of Quidditch."

"That might work…maybe we could even do that tomorrow. Ron and Harry are here. We could play teams."

"Yeah, I'll bring it up in passing conversation…has he gotten on a broom since Fred-"

"A couple times. But it was mostly just for travel. He'd fly away and not come back for hours."

Theresa nodded, "Your mom mentioned also that he took walks where he wouldn't show up til morning of the next day."

"It was so scary." The redhead shuddered. They had finally gathered all the corn and were walking back to the house.

"So…yeah, maybe we can try Quidditch tomorrow."

"Worth a shot. And anyway, perhaps you'll learn to actually stay on a broom."

It was Theresa's turn now to whack Ginny, and they giggled like schoolgirls as they walked into the house.

**

Dinner was the usual delicious meal, crafted by Mrs. Weasley, and Mr. Weasley amused all by recounting his adventures in Diagon Alley earlier that day, which had involved a man who had bought what he thought were cabbages at a local market, but turned out to be baby Chimearas.

"But…aren't those rare, dangerous, and possibly illegal?" Percy asked, nearly spilling pumpkin juice down his front when his father went into detail about the appearance of the Chimaeras.

"Oh, very! Not really my department, strictly speaking…but they had Ministry officials swarming the area. Apparently it's not Dung. This is too sophisticated for him. We think it might be these two Greek Con-Wizards who've been known to do some illegal trading in the area."

Theresa listened on in interest as she chewed her cooked carrots. She had been completely displaced from the Wizarding community, so it was nice to hear some news about what was happening.

"What happened to the man who bought them?" asked George.

"Well, he didn't think they were anything more than high-priced cabbages until his hands caught fire."

Despite the rather serious nature of the story, the table roared with laughter. It was good to hear this family do that again.

Genuine mirth, Theresa was pleased to see, sparked in George's eyes for a split second.

A few hours later, and full to bursting, Theresa wandered lazily into the sitting room. Here was the infamous Weasley clock, with hands for all the members of the family. Three, belonging to Bill, Charlie, and Ron, were pointed to "work". The hands belonging to Arthur, Molly, Ginny, and Percy were comfortably filling the space labeled "home." Fred's hand seemed to be absent, and George's, which she realized after doing a double-take, was stuck resolutely at "lost."

She glanced around the room, loving the clutter of it. The mismatched quilt lying on the back of the sofa, the crooked bookcases, and stacks of parchment, an array of different rugs, a jumble of serving trays shoved amongst the books, at least five squashy ottomans, and a set of knitting needles, working on their own and on a beautiful lilac jumper, added soft clicking sounds to the atmosphere.

"_Marry me."_

"_Sorry, didn't catch that." They were lounging on the couch, her body between his legs and her back resting against his chest. He was softly stroking her arm. _

"_Marry. Me." He spoke the words like they were the most important contributions to the English language. She twisted to look up at him._

_There were tears in her eyes._

"_Alright, then."_

"We should go to bed soon if we want to go to Diagon in the morning." Ginny spoke from the stairs, which she had just started to ascend.

"Oh right! What time do you want to leave?"

"How's nine? We can get all our shopping done, then come back for the uh…therapy." She whispered the last part.

"Nine's perfect. I'll only steal a bit more clothing from you before then."

The younger of the two rolled her eyes in mock exasperation, before running up the stairs to prepare for bed.

Ascending the stairs, and getting to her landing, she poked her head in on George.

"G'night." She said.

"See you in the morning." He responded, pulling a t-shirt over his head.

"Actually, you won't. Ginny and I are doing some shopping, so we'll be out for a little while."

"Oh! Well…have fun then. Doing girl stuff." He scoffed, going over to hug her. "Thanks again, for-"

"Honestly, you use that word twenty million times a day, George. I have been thanked. End of story."

He only hugged her tighter, then said, "sleep tight, puddle duck."

She turned and closed the door. To herself, she laughed at the old nickname. George hadn't called her that since third year, when he caught her splashing around in the courtyard, in puddles left by the monsoon.

"_You're strange…is that a weird Muggle ritual or something?"_

"_No, it's just fun! You should try sometime."_

"_Wizards don't splash."_

_She raised an eyebrow; a trademark facial expression of hers, "Maybe not, but I have a feeling Weasley twins splash."_

"_We don't want to dampen our reputation by being pansies. You, on the other hand, can be as much of a puddle duck as you want, puddle duck."_

With that, she recalled, he had turned around, and left her in the courtyard, to continue her fun alone…but not before he had glanced back at her over his shoulder, hands shoved in his pockets. And there was something different in his eyes.

She had looked down at her yellow Wellingtons, wiggling her toes, and not thinking twice. She continued to splash away the morning, umbrella clutched firmly in her hand.

**

"Get up!"

She whacked him with a pillow.

"Whassamatter?" He mumbled groggily.

"As least you got a full days sleep. But George, it's past noon." She yanked aside his curtains, and opened the window. He shivered as the chilly air raised goose bumps on his skin.

He sat up, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and stretching. "Where's the fire? And _why_ did you hit me with that pillow?" He fell back down amongst his sheets.

"You were being stubborn. And we're exercising today, dearest. Get up!"

And with that, she left, making sure to slam the door behind her.

"Is he getting up?" Ginny called from the stairwell.

"Yes, albeit it reluctantly." Theresa responded, trudging down to the bottom, and hauling the crate that rested there into the foyer.

Five minutes later, George came downstairs, in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt.

"There he is, the lay about!" Mrs. Weasley shouted from the kitchen, coming towards him and shoving a piece of toast in his mouth.

"I'm up, OK?" He said, once he had swallowed. He glanced towards the doorway, where Theresa was holding a medium-sized crate.

"Come on, George. We're going to the orchards."

The three of them trudged up the hill leading to the small paddock where the Weasley children used to practice Quidditch so fervently.

"Ah, of course." George said. "Quidditch then?"

"You've guessed it." Theresa said, dropping the crate in the middle of the paddock. Harry and Ron chose that exact moment to apparate with a loud crack. Each was holding a broomstick.

"Alright there, you three?" Harry said, adjusting his gloves, and going over to Ginny to give her a quick kiss. "This'll be fun. You got the stuff, T?"

"You bet. George, come with me to get the brooms?"

The entire time, George had been looking on, bemused, and slightly touched. Theresa took his aloofness for anger.

"I know you probably are pissed off at me for organizing this behind your back, but Ginny said-"

"T, it's alright. I haven't played Quidditch in years, this will be fine…it might be nice to get back to it." He said softly as they made their way to the broom shed. "Granted, you didn't have to keep it a secret."

"Well, I was afraid you wouldn't want to do it. And you've always been better when things are sprung on you." She unlocked the door. Two Cleansweeps stood in the corner, and a vast array of other older makes were scattered higgledy piggledy on the floor.

"Ginny and I will take the Cleansweeps" he said, grasping them. "And you can take a Comet Two Sixty." He handed her the aforementioned broom. "Seeing as you're the worst player."

"Thanks for your honesty." She smirked. He ruffled her hair affectionately as they made their way back to the playing field.

Ginny and Harry watched as they approached.

"What d'you reckon?" Harry whispered to Ginny.

"Oh, I don't think anything's going on, or will go on. They've changed a lot."

Harry pushed his glasses a bit farther up the bridge of his nose. "Perhaps you're right. All the same- cracking good couple, they were." He clammed up as George and Theresa neared them.

"Fancy a game, then?" George said, shaking Harry's hand. The latter responded with enthusiasm.

"I bought us some new Bludgers in town today," Theresa said, kicking open the crate and gingerly releasing the terrible black balls, "we already have a fairly good Quaffle."

They never played with the Snitch. It was too small, and too easily lost.

They played doubles, with Ron being the only Keeper. Theresa, although the most inexperienced of everyone else in the paddock, didn't do as horribly as she had in the past.

She considered this a plus.

And George, everyone was pleased to see, was smiling and shouting out strategic ideas as they played. He hit away the Bludgers with the same amount of expertise as his youth, though every once in a while the girls especially, would notice his face lapse into a heartbreaking expression. It was those fleeting moments, Theresa guessed, that he realized he couldn't shout words of encouragement to his twin.

"_That's fantastic!"_

"_Yeah, we thought maybe just one of us would make it, so it was really spiffing when they took both of us!"_

_The twins plopped down onto a pair of ottomans in front of Theresa. They were covered in mud, and were all smiles. _

"_Well, congratulations to the both of you. Those are really hard positions, aren't they?"_

"_Not as difficult as the Seeker's job, but yeah." George said, breathless. "Cuz not only have you got to be a good flyer, but your aim has to be spot on, too."_

"_And let's face it, we're perfect. Wood is already calling us the Human Bludgers." Fred shook his hair out of his eyes, trying to rid himself of excess droplets of water. The attempt was fruitless._

"_Now you have to come to the games and cheer us on." George smiled, peering at what Theresa was reading. "What's that you've got there?"_

"_Comedy of Errors by William Shakespeare. British Muggle writer…well, playwrite to be frank."_

"_Shouldn't have asked, Georgie. Now she'll give you the summary."_

"_Actually…I could really go a butterbeer." She mused, "after you two shower, shall we make a trip?"_

_The twins looked impressed. "And THIS is why you are our friend." George laughed. _

Three games later, tired and sweaty despite the cold day, their Quidditch playing came to an end.

"You know," George considered, "Theresa's Quidditch skills have gone from utterly ghastly to slightly horrible. I think that calls for some celebration."

The group, including Theresa, laughed hard. "Yeah, I gained experience by sweeping my kitchen for the past five years."

Ron looked horrified, as though anyone who used a broomstick to sweep their kitchen deserved nothing less than a sentence to Azkaban. Catching his eye, she assured him that she was only kidding.

The guys went on ahead, while Ginny and Theresa lingered back, having volunteered to put the brooms back. Ron, George, and Harry were immersed in conversation about a complicated Quidditch move that had been utilized at the past year's World Cup (held in Russia), and that Harry had just tried out during their last game.

"That went over well." Ginny said, sounding impressed, as they locked up the brooms.

"Yeah. George wasn't angry or anything, by the way. I asked. He was actually quite touched." She paused, as the two walked, "but I still sensed his sadness."

Another pause, as she formulated her thoughts further.

"But that's to be expected. Especially if he hasn't played since 7th year."

"I always hate it when he has that look in his eyes." Ginny said, watching the retreating back of her boyfriend and two brothers. "Especially because it's George."

Theresa nodded.

"But…" Ginny continued, "That was really successful, I think! And, you got some fab new clothes. Sounds like a pretty good day to me!"

"And you made some spectacular goals, too."

They eased their way into the Burrow, reveling in the delicious smells that seemed to permanently emanate from the kitchen.

**

C'mon guys, it's nearly six chapters in! You can review harder than that :)

I'm not complaining, really…really!


	7. Awkward Moments and Belly Laughs

This chapter's slightly shorter! No reviews for that last chapter…and yet I soldier on, hoping to squeeze some constructive criticism from my readers.

Ah, well…here 'tis!

**

It was almost two weeks before she thought it was okay to do something else with George.

"I'm going to the Leaky Cauldron to meet some old friends. Fancy going?"

"Which old friends?"

"The crew. Lee, Alicia, Katie, Ange, etc."

George ran a hand through his hair. They were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table, a half a grapefruit in front of each of them.

"Er…"

"Don't feel pressured into coming. I just thought it would be fun to get together with them a bit more regularly. I haven't seen them in a while, so I figured…anyway, I'm sure they'd like to see you as well, if you're game."

He dug into his grapefruit. "I need to tell you something, first. I mean, before I consider going."

She watched him.

"After you left…well- I was really kind of lonely, so-"

She held up a hand to silence him. It wasn't, however, a gesture of anger. "Who was it?"

He paused, fiddling with his spoon. "Angelina."

Admittedly, she was shocked, but there was absolutely no way she could be angry with him. It was his prerogative to do as he wanted after she left him in the dust.

"Oh!" There was a little awkward pause as she dropped her eyes to the table, and he dropped his spoon. "Angelina- wow, I wasn't expecting that." She finally said, glancing up to meet his gaze. He looked sheepish, like he had done something wrong. "George, it's okay. You had every right. Are you two like, an item or-"

"No! Heavens no, it was a really short thing. Almost short enough to be a fling, actually. It's over, I realized some things that…well, anyway. I just wanted to warn you in case it got a bit uncomfortable."

She raised an eyebrow, slightly amused by how flustered he was. Once again, his eyes darted to meet hers, and he let out a tiny yet insufferably cute laugh.

She had to laugh, too.

"Well, now that we got that out of the way…do you want to come along?"

He chewed a piece of grapefruit thoughtfully. "I don't see the harm in going. And I mean, we're going together, but-"

"We _aren't _together, so Angelina doesn't have any reason to make the situation awkward, and neither do we."

"Exactly." He dumped another teaspoon of sugar onto his breakfast. "I always like the way you think. Logical, but with just enough mischievousness."

She chuckled. "So, you'll go?"

"I suppose. I mean, what harm can it do? It's not like we're going to rehash the absolute worst moments of our lives then cry for a few hours, right?"

"Right." She watched him bring his dish to the sink. He was cracking jokes a bit more in the past week, the past few days especially. And once in a while, he'd grin a genuine grin. Ones that would remind her of the days when all George Weasley had to care about was if he had planted the right amount of Nose-biting Teacups in the faculty lounge.

**

"Ready, T?" George called up the stairs, which Theresa was currently hurrying down.

"Yes sir."

He smirked. She looked quite beautiful.

"Shall we?" They walked out the front door, yelling hurried goodbyes to Percy who was reading in the living room, and swiftly turned on the welcome mat, apparating into darkness.

With a crack, they appeared just outside the Leaky Cauldron. George squinted up at the sign, sighing heavily and shoved his hands in his pockets.

"An old haunt." He mumbled to Theresa. "Don't let me near any Firewhiskey."

"I won't. Don't worry." She assured him, wondering what could have possibly befallen him when he was under the influence of alcohol. She shuddered to think.

"Let's go." He said, and he steered her into the pub.

_They were talking so fast, it was like she was watching a tennis match as her eyes flicked from one to the other._

"_And it's only been our second day, and we've already made back the money that Harry loaned us. We'll be able to pay him back in full by the time Verity finishes counting the drawer." George was saying enthusiastically. Fred, who was downing a shot of Firewhiskey, re-surfaced and continued._

"_We had a couple kids try to steal from us about an hour into our first shift. Little blighters didn't know what hit 'em when George got them with a Finger Lock Hex."_

_The three laughed. _

"_I guess this means that you'll have to buy me an actual birthday present this year. Sorry, chum." Theresa said to George._

"_What's he been giving you for the past three years, sex coupons?"_

"_Always bringing a touch of class, aren't we, Fred Weasley?" She chuckled. He inclined his head._

"_But of course."_

"George! Theresa! Over here." Katie was waving to them from a booth. Surrounding her were Lee Jordan and Alicia Spinnet.

It was so weird seeing their faces again. Somewhere, in each face, Theresa caught a glimpse of the first year Hogwarts student she had met so many years ago. She had to stop her brain from reminiscing on the spot.

The two girls got up and hugged Theresa immediately. They couldn't seem to suppress their squeals of delight, and Lee rose from the table, shaking George's hand before pulling him into a bear hug.

"Haven't seen you in a few, mate!" He said, thumping George on the back. The latter smiled back weakly.

"Yeah, been taking some time off."

"Sit down you guys! We gotta catch up, and this could take hours." Alicia piped up.

Theresa slid into the booth, and was followed by George, then Katie. Alicia and Lee sat on the other side.

"Where's Ange? Lee, didn't you say she was-"

"Ah." Lee looked a little uncomfortable. "She had last minute plans, absolutely unavoidable. You know, Hollies stuff. But she wished she could be here, really."

George and Theresa exchanged only the tiniest of glances.

"So T…what's big bad America like?" Lee asked, sipping his drink, and beckoning the waiter over to take the newcomers' orders.

Despite Angelina's absence, the five of them spent a fair amount of time reminiscing about their schooldays, and there would be an occasional outburst of laughter. It was nice to plunge back into a different time with these people, Theresa thought to herself: a time when they hadn't a care in the world. Or at least, not important ones. Lee particularly enjoyed talking about their Charms class, an almost free period for them as they had neared the end of their seventh year. They could do almost anything under Flitwick's nose, and he wouldn't notice.

It wasn't until things were winding down, and Theresa was halfway through her third butterbeer that Katie, a slight bit tipsy, made a tiny mistake.

"So, tell me Fred…- oof, GEORGE, I mean!" She hastily covered her mouth, and her eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. "My mistake, George, I'm sorry I-"

Theresa's looked over at George, who had lost all expression in his face at the mention of Fred. He didn't look bewildered, flustered, angry, disgusted…nothing. His features were unreadable.

"W.C." He stated finally. And with what seemed to be a fair amount of effort, he got up from the booth and stalked off.

"I'm an idiot." Katie muttered, clearly disgusted with herself, "a complete tosser."

"You really are." Lee agreed, shaking his head.

"No…no, it's alright." Theresa assured them. "It just slipped out, Katie, it was an accident." She looked towards the direction in which George had gone.

"All the same. We hadn't mentioned Fred all night. I thought we were doing a really good job." Alicia said, shooting Katie a dirty look. "And to, of all things, confuse the two of them?" Katie looked like she had just committed murder.

"I'm never drinking again." She said.

"It was bound to happen, so don't give it a second thought, alright?" Theresa said, grabbing her bag and wrap. "all the same, we should probably head out. But we'll do this again soon, OK?" As she got up to go, she beckoned Lee. "A word, Mr. Jordan?"

He smiled as he eased his way out of the booth, following her in the direction of the bathrooms.

"I don't know why Angelina wasn't able to make it tonight," she started, pulling her jacket around her, "but please tell her that there is nothing between George and I anymore. Just to put her at rest if she's been thinking that."

Lee fiddled with the end of one of his dreadlocks, "she's alright about it. I think she just didn't want to make it awkward for George." He sighed. "She feels really bad for him."

"I'll owl her at some point this week. I want to see the girl!" Theresa chuckled. "No matter how awkward it is."

Lee pulled her into a hug. "It was great seeing you again, T. And I too, think this needs to happen more often."

"Yes, please." She mumbled against his shoulder. "I'm off to find Mr. Weasley. Cheers."

**

They apparated back with a smart snap, back to the exact location on the welcome mat as last time.

She turned to him. "George."

"It's OK." He muttered, opening the door and walking in. Collecting herself, she followed him inside. She placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, which he didn't shrug off.

Not that he ever did.

"Really." His tone was warmer than a second ago, and her turned to her and grasped her hand. "I guess I'm just used to everyone being careful around me."

She nodded. "That's never happened before?" He shook his head.

"The family almost puts _too_ much thought into making sure they don't confuse me with him anymore. There's…always a pause before they talk to me. It's like they're proof-reading their thoughts." He looked away. "What time is it?"

"9:45."

"Wanna come up to the roof with me?" He asked, jerking his head in the direction of the stairs.

"The roof? Sure."

On the seventh floor of the Burrow, there was a little landing, and a door leading out to the absolute top of the house. It was flat, so it was easy to lie on. Many of the Weasley children used to use the roof as a place to, once and a while, escape the din.

He opened the door that led to the roof, and the chilly air blew her hair about her face.

When they had seated themselves on the roof, legs dangling off the edge, he spoke again.

"I never really realized how little I could talk to my friends." He tossed a pebble off the balcony, and tried to hear where it landed.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, back in the day…when it was all of us together. Fred and I, we were kind of the spectacles of the group. We heard each other and nobody else, and…and I didn't realize how lost I would feel in a group of my peers without him." He laid back, his gaze averted to the stars. She followed suit. "I mean, until we became friends with you. Then, there was a pleasant-sounding female voice added to our yells." She grinned.

She loved to lay in silence with him. It was usually never awkward. There was such an immense comfort level between the two of them, and it was constantly there, like a fluffy new down-comforter that sat at the end of your bed.

He broke the silence shortly after.

"I always wondered what centaurs saw in the stars." He said after a while, in a hushed tone. "Silly gits."

She gave a small chuckle. He turned to look at her, a smile on his face, then resumed his heaven-ward gaze.

"I'd hate to think Fred was watching us right now." She said, the corner of her mouth twitching.

"Oh yeah? And why's that?"

"Because that would mean that he has nothing better to do. And you know how he would get when he had nothing better to do."

"Yeah…somebody usually came close to losing a vital body part, or having their common room infested with Doxies. Snape was so pissed that someone found out where his students' lair was. Then there was the amazing flammatory Norris incident…"

She considered what he just said, and suddenly, inexplicably, she began to laugh. Before she could stop to think, it turned into a surge of mirth, tumbling from her in great, resounding belly laughs. He looked quizzically at her, before a slow smirk spread across his face. He laughed with her. Together. She watched as the corners of his eyes crinkled, which gave her so much pleasure, it only made her laugh harder. And through her hiccups, she managed to squeak,

"Thank you, Freddie, for today's dose of amusement!"

She turned to look at him, his eyes reflecting the stars at which he gazed, and his chest heaving as he laughed uproariously, genuinely, for the first time in five years.


	8. Snow Angels

Welcome back to another installment.

Just a friendly reminder to read and review. It means so much. And I stick by my promise to review all authors who review my story. No joke.

Another reminder, all italicized text is either a flashback, dream, or memory. Except for spells.

Thanks for the hits!

**

"_I have to go."_

_He stood from the rubble, wiping his dirty hands off on his jeans. They'd been trying their best to repair some of the damage that had been done to Hogwarts during the battle, but to almost no avail. Anything and everything he could do to take his mind off Fred, he was invested in._

"_That's fine. Go back to the house, I'll see you later."_

"_No, George," she whimpered, frantic tears starting to fall from her eyes, "I have to go. Get out of here, I can't-"_

"_What are you talking about?" His voice lowered to a deadly whisper, and his hands grasped her arms, forcing her to look at him._

_But everything she was talking about was reflected in the distressed, and unsound gaze she fixed him with. _

_He thought his heart stopped. _

"_Wait…what- Theresa? You can't be…I need you. You can't just-"_

"_No, please don't make me." She pleaded. "There's something wrong with the way everything happened, this wasn't supposed to…everything just went so wrong." She suddenly broke into horrible, gut wrenching sobs, and sank to the floor. He followed her down._

"_T, please!" He shook her violently, his dirty face smeared with tear tracks, "PLEASE!" He shook his head in disbelief at her. He wanted to slam her against the wall, scream at her, shout until he was hoarse, but…he found his hands without strength. Words seemed to die on his lips, and his legs didn't seem to want to function._

_She started to push herself away from him, shaking her head and trembling with overt emotion, fear, and loss. The words she muttered were unintelligible, and every time he tried to get her to look at him, she forcefully planted her eyes to the ground. "Fred, I can't- can't think of…Fred, there just wasn't time, and you…you-"_

_She got to her feet, running aimlessly towards the door, the great oak door of Hogwarts, which was hanging precariously on its hinges. _

_She reminded him of a frightened animal. _

"_LOOK AT ME, THERESA!" He shouted after her, spite seething from every syllable. _

_And one last time she turned to face him._

"_I'm a coward, George Weasley. You and your family deserve better." _

_And with that, she turned on the spot, and…_

She awoke with a start, gasping in great gulps of air. "NO!" she exclaimed, getting the awful feeling in her stomach that one gets when they are unable to scream in a dream. Her eyes stared wide, and she blinked furiously, trying to stamp out the image that was now burned into her brain. She raised a trembling hand to her forehead, afraid to close her eyes in case the dream permeated her thoughts once more. But she could not stop the inevitable flood of wetness that leaked from the corners of her eyes. Shudders ran up and down her spine as she wept silent tears, and once again, she found herself angry for being unable to control her emotions.

"_Is it a good thing to wear your heart on your sleeve, Fred?" she asked, when Angelina had dissolved into tears over something he had said to her earlier._

"_As long as nobody tears your sleeve." He said, head bent over a sheet of parchment, and his eyes darting warily over to Angelina. "I should probably apologize, shouldn't I?" he asked her. _

"Fred." She muttered to herself, her head hanging forward. "You stupid prick."

"_Aguamenti_." Refreshing water filled the glass she kept by her bed. But it seemed no matter how much she drank, in that moment, her thirst could not be satiated. She blinked her eyes rapid-fire, this time to clear the tears that were clouding her gaze. With heavy feet, she raised herself from her bed, and slipped on her booties. How long had she been here at the Burrow? She was starting to lose track of time. Slowly, different patterns of snowflakes drifted to earth outside her window.

She snorted. George used to say that only old married couples watched snowflakes fall.

But, she had asked him why, then, he freaked out the second he would see the first snowflake fall on the Hogwarts grounds.

It was December 23rd by the calendar that hung beside the bed, and she had watched the Weasley family prepare for another Christmas without Fred. It was difficult seeing Mrs. Weasley flick her wand towards her knitting needles, and seeing the look on her face when they knitted two dense blue jumpers, labeled with a large letter "F" and "G". Theresa had been the only one to witness it this year, and Mrs. Weasley had led her to a little cupboard under the stairs, showing her where she had stashed the past few years' worth of "F" jumpers.

"I can't bare to not make them." She had whispered, tears welling in her eyes. "Don't tell George."

She had promised not to.

Now she stood staring at the thick blanket of white that covered the backyard of the Burrow. Opening her window, she reveled in the freezing blast of air that hit her full in the face. Snow was so silent. Winter held so many secrets, she didn't know where to go or what to do to listen to them.

"_Expecto Patronum_." For some silly reason, she'd been trying to recreate her Patronus ever since she had returned here. It always died. She didn't know why tonight would be any different. Especially considering the nightmare she had just had. She missed her Patronus. However, tonight was no different, and a feeble thread of silvery mist expelled itself from the tip of her wand, flickered, and died.

"Oh, OK." She muttered in disappointment. "If that's the way it's going to be."

She checked her watch. 3:30. It was officially Christmas Eve, December 24th. For one moment, she contemplated going out to visit Fred's grave, but then, gave into the facts that one, she was not emotionally stable enough at the moment to deal with another visit at the present time, and two, it was too bloody cold outside.

So, she collapsed back on her bed, spread eagled and face pink from the nippy weather she had opened her window to. And silently, she wished herself good luck in finding another wink of sleep.

**

"Good morning." A careful voice spoke low and rumbling from the foot of her bed, and she jumped up hurriedly, trying to figure out its source.

She found George seated at her feet, tying a thin piece of silver garland to the bedpost.

"No." she said, burying her face in her pillow. "It can't be morning yet. That would mean that I would have to get up, which is highly preposterous."

"I always wondered how you could say words that long at this early hour." He said, and she noted the hint of a smile in his tone.

"Come on." He said, pulling the blankets off her. Her body instantly folded into the fetal position as she struggled to hold onto any bits of warmth she could salvage. "Mum's losing her head over specific forks. It's getting ugly."

"Bwt thrs nuffingk tpo do." She mumbled into her pillow.

She felt him wallop her with her other pillow.

"You did NOT…" She said in a deathly quiet voice, as she rose from her previous position among her bedclothes "just do that."

And then, she was hitting him back, and he was taking swipes at her again. It became a violent pillow fight, which involved climbing on the bed and any other high surfaces in the room in order to escape the harrowing hits.

"You've tangled with the wrong Beater this morning." He laughed, as he rugby-tackled her to the floor, her trying to fend him off with the sad remains of goose feather and fabric.

"GEORGE, NO- I CAN'T…BREATHE! STOPPPPP IT!!!" She was laughing too hard for this time of the day, but neither seemed to care, and they didn't stop their fight until Ginny opened the door, finding them in a rather compromising position.

George looked up from his position on top of Theresa, and the latter twisted her head round so she could get a good look at the shocked expression on Ginny's face.

"Hey little sis." He said calmly, not a trace of embarrassment in his voice. "Mum want us downstairs?"

"Yes." Seemed to be the only word Ginny could formulate at the moment. And with another alarmed expression, she turned tail and ran down the stairs.

The second she had gone, George rolled off Theresa and replaced his pillow on the bed, grinning. Theresa tried to ignore the very obvious blush that had begun to appear in her cheeks by shaking her head at him.

"Nice wake up call." She said, elbowing him as he placed an arm around her shoulders, and they schlepped down the stairs.

"Yes well. How boring would a screaming alarm clock be? Getting absolutely gob-smacked is far more effective, I think." He said, as they entered the kitchen, which was in the midst of a sound explosion: Ginny must have polished the wrong set of cutlery.

"You didn't even look at the handles! There's two different types, Ginevra!!! Haven't I taught you ANYTHING? What's going to happen when you have a family of your own to-"

"I won't be rowing with my daughter about spoons, that's what'll happen!" Ginny stormed, stomping out of the kitchen past George and Theresa, throwing her arms up in exasperation. Theresa laughed as George widened his eyes and pursed his lips, mouthing "Whoa."

Mrs. Weasley darted over to them, a stack of serving trays floating behind her, "Good morning Theresa, breakfast?"

"Oh…no thanks, Mrs. Weasley." Theresa said as she watched the plump woman brush past her, clearly preoccupied and en route to another task. "I'll just, er…"

"You two can go to the village and get the garlands!" She shouted back to George and Theresa.

"Garlands, mum? Can't we just-"

"Don't argue, I ordered them special yesterday!" Mrs. Weasley flicked her wand so the serving trays dumped themselves in the sink, With another flick, several silver candle sticks darted out of a cupboard and planted themselves in the middle of the table. Theresa, for fear of getting in the way, hastily darted back upstairs, to, as she explained to George, take a shower.

When she returned, in a turtleneck, jeans, and winter boots, Mrs. Weasley had cooked up eggs and tomatoes. She ate them hurriedly as George handed her her coat and scarf. "Thanks, Mrs. Weasley! We'll be back soon." She called, as the pair left through the front door, and began their slow trudge through the snow.

It had stopped snowing, and now it was a pristine, untouched blanket. There was something so beautiful about the silence, and Theresa's mind only briefly drifted back to her dream earlier, which had caused her to observe the snowfall in the wee hours of the morning.

She linked arms with George, who looked down at her, smirking.

"I think you're mum's doing quite well, considering." She said jovially.

"Oh really? Well, tell that to Ginny. I think the poor girl's about to self combust."

They continued on through the snow, leaving a deep path out the front gate, and down to the village. Nobody had shoveled the main road yet, as it was still quite early, and inhabitants of the town were only just now stirring. Theresa breathed in the air. The smell of pine needles, ice, and somewhere in the distance, a hint of apple cider met her nostrils.

"Oooh, George, smell that! Doesn't it just scream Christmas?" She kicked her feet up in front of her, spraying the both of them with flakes. He chuckled, brushing the droplets off his jacket, and shaking his head at her.

"You're batty, you know that?"

"It makes me interesting." She replied, picking up a handful of clean snow and pressing it to her lips.

"_STOP."_

"_Make me." _

_She blasted the snowball out of his hands._

"_Ah see, that didn't really STOP me…I mean, there's so much more snow. It's everywhere, actually. I could just lean down and-"_

_She tackled him to earth, pinning him down in the freezing cold white. There had been a blizzard the night before, and the twins had spent the entire afternoon pouncing on unassuming victims. Apparently, this time, George had chosen his prey without enough after-thought to ponder the fact that she might pounce back. _

_Fred, watching from just a few yards away, smiled to himself._

"_Don't…hit me with a snowball that feels like it's made of rocks again! That was an ice ball!" She stormed at him, her eyes blazing into his. He laughed, quite bemused and slightly impressed that she had the impetus to pin him down in this rather interesting manner. _

"_Let me check you for bruises." He rolled over on top of her, thinking it might quell her swinging arms, but she only fought harder against him. _

"_You need to stop…terrorizing...me!!" She yelled at him, as he grabbed her arms, dodging out of the way of her fists. _

"_There really is no stopping us, you know. I'm a bit more focused on stopping _you_ at the moment as it is…let's see, how could I get you to calm down?" He pretended to try and search for an answer, grinning devilishly. She tried to wriggle out from under him, but he had her under a vice grip. _

_It was only then that she realized how close he was to her. She could almost count every freckle on the bridge of his nose, see the texture of his red hair that was falling in his face…_

_He was kissing her, she soon realized, but only after her senses had rebooted themselves. In that moment when he had decided to press his lips to hers, she had gone temporarily brain dead, and seemed to be able to register only that her body was pulsing with amazing, sensual heat. His embrace was so soft, not at all what she was expecting. Hell, she hadn't really expected him to kiss her at all._

_She become conscious that she had stopped fighting him, she was limp in his arms, and she was responding eagerly to his advances. Her mind, which should have been buzzing with thoughts, seemed to be focused only on his heartbeat thundering underneath her hand. _

_He stopped, and looked intently at her. There was something different in his eyes, now. _

"_That worked." She breathed, her cheeks not only pink from the cold. _

"T?" She was jolted out of her daydream by George elbowing her. "You were getting a little glaze-eyed on me." He said softly.

"Just thinking." She said dreamily, once again pressing her lips to the handful of snow in her hand.

"Can I ask about what?"

"You can ask, but I can't promise I'll answer."

He raised an eyebrow. "Ok, I'll try my chances. What are you thinking about?"

She swallowed the icy water, enjoying the feeling as it slowly slid down her throat. "When you kissed me in the snow our fifth year."

He bent his head to the ground, smirking. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Wouldn't be because you want me to kiss you in the snow now, would it?"

She gave him an incredulous look, which made him laugh. "Because you know, I wouldn't blame you if you wanted that. Just look at me."

She dusted the rest of the snow off her gloves, back onto the ground. She was stubbornly ignoring the warmth in her cheeks. "I always loved your subtlety." She chanced a sideways glance at him, and was humored when she realized that he had done the same. They laughed nervously.

They had arrived at the flower store, and George went on ahead of her to hold the door. "Let's get these garlands and get the hell home. Mum will have emptied the kitchen out on the lawn and Ginny will have incinerated Crookshanks if we're not there to interfere."

Theresa sighed, thankful at the moment, for the subject change.

**

It was almost impossible to have a bad Christmas at the Burrow. The Weasleys were just too nice of a family to be terribly dysfunctional, so there were rarely any awkward moments at dinner, the conversation was always interesting, and Christmas Eve, by the time all the preparations were made for the next day, was relaxing and enjoyable. Mrs. Weasley had finally calmed down, Arthur, Percy, Ron, and Harry had trudged in the door at quarter to seven, and the kitchen was warm and sweet-smelling. Ginny, having realized that there was no fighting her mother on certain things, resigned to the task of being a lackey for the weekend, and passed the time, after the arrival of the rest of the family, playing cards with Theresa and George. It certainly felt like home, Theresa thought, as they welcomed Hermione into the now small crowd of people. She and George had amused themselves by finding various foods (and sometimes objects) to cook with a toasting fork, and there was now a small pile of severely burnt toast and marshmallows on a plate that Mrs. Weasley had designated for them.

"You're usually such a good cook, too." George chided her, studying the cards in his hand. Ginny sniggered, placing her cards down.

"Royal flush, bitches. Take that." She exclaimed.

"How the heck did you win when I'm the one who taught you how to play?!" Theresa said, bewildered. She placed down her useless hand.

"Well, I taught her how to cheat." George said, shrugging his shoulders and grinning at his little sis. "And she learns well."

"What are you ruffians up to?" Harry said, taking a seat next to Ginny and examining the pack of Muggle playing cards.

"Making it through the holidays." George said, pointing his wand at the tree and re-adjusting the garden gnome, which had drifted down from its perch at the top.

"Is that the same one?" Harry asked, clearly remembering the gold-painted ornery little beast. He smiled as George gave him a mysterious, Weasley twin wink. "Nasty little bugger, that one."

"Alright you lot, it's dinner." Hermione called from the kitchen, and the four of them got to their feet and almost floated into the kitchen on the smells of chicken, pumpkin pie, mashed potatoes, and turnips. Harry's stomach growled in anticipation, as he slung an arm around Ginny's shoulders, fingering the small square box in his pocket with his free hand.

**

"Come in."

He pushed the door open, finding her seated in the middle of her bed, in the process of wrapping a gift. A small pile of other finished ones lay at the foot. She was extremely invested in her work, tongue between her teeth, making absolutely sure that she had the exact amount of paper left over.

"Even though I can do this by magic," she said, cutting off a piece of tape, and placing it carefully on the paper, "I just can't bring myself to. It's too much fun to do it this way."

He tousled his dark red hair, and sauntered over to sit on the floor next to her bed.

"Who's that one for?"

"You're sister."

"What did you get her?"

"She's very difficult to buy for, that one." Theresa said, tying a bow around the package, "but I think I've hit the mark with this. It's a toaster."

"A toaster?"

"Yes. Permanently set to 'burn'. She likes it dark, and the one downstairs just doesn't cut it, she told me. And she can bring it with her when she moves out."

She set the parcel among the others.

"What brings you to my neck of the woods?" She asked, looking down at him. "You can sit up here, you know." He got up, stretching his long legs, and sat down across from her. He put his chin in his hands, and looked down at the space between them. And it was only when Theresa finally lowered her head to look at him that he realized that there were tears in his eyes. He avoided her gaze, and turned away to wipe his eyes on the back of his hand.

"It's nothing, I was just…" he started, looking out her window and sighing.

"Reminiscing." She finished for him.

He continued to stare out her window.

"When we were kids, Fred and I used to decorate the tree." There was a pause, in which she looked down at her hands. "I mean, once we got a bit older and such, and the holiday got more about the family, everyone would do it, but from…from the time we were about four up to when we started Hogwarts, it was our tradition. And…and I only just remembered that tonight."

Tears were now flowing freely down his cheeks, but when he spoke, his voice was unwavering.

"It was the only thing that we took seriously at that point in our lives. We were so _careful_. And I remember the way he would hold the glass ornaments in his hands."

She drew her knees up to her chest, watching him.

"And it makes me angry that he could be that careful about a glass ornament, but not about himself." He finished in a whisper. "He should have been looking. He got sloppy, and it only took a second."

"I know." She said, cocking her head to the side. She too looked out the window. It had begun to snow again.

"Wait a moment." He pulled out his wand and, hastily waving it, procured a bottle of alcohol and two glasses. She raised an eyebrow.

"I thought you said to-"

"And I mean it. We're doing one toast, and then you're to get rid of this blasted thing." He spoke in such a serious tone, Theresa felt like she was receiving orders from an army General. She nodded, and accepted a glass. He poured a small amount of amber liquid into the two tumblers, just enough for a quick shot.

"Can I make the toast?" She said, inching closer to him. In her small movement, she could almost feel the change in the atmosphere. She surpressed a sharp intake of breath.

"Sure." He said, clinking his glass to hers. "What are we drinking to?"

"Well, first of all…" she raised her glass high, "to family. Something that, when good, protects us, comforts us, and goes through everything with us. Second of all…to life. Something that has a definite beginning, and a definite end. Thirdly-" she looked up at him, "to you, George. To your strength and forgiving heart. You…you are too good to your friends." She almost faltered. "And lastly, to Fred your brother." She bit her lip, dropping her head. Water was welling quickly in the corners of her eyes.

"To Fred." She repeated, collecting her self quickly, "our dear friend."

"Wow, when you give a toast, you don't mess around." He said, his mouth twitching. They clinked their glasses once more, quickly downing the shot of burning liquor, and when they were done, Theresa vanished the remaining alcohol. She looked over at the small clock on her bedside table: 12:37 AM.

"Happy Christmas." She whispered to him, moving over to give him a hug. He sunk against her, and allowed her to put her head on his shoulder.

"Happy Christmas, T." he said back, resting his head on hers, and pulling her closer. "I love you."

Her heartbeat sped up as she replied, "I love you too."

**

Oooh, it's getting' HOT in here…;)


	9. Blackbird

Thanks for the reviews, folks! And here is the next chapter! Enjoy!

**

"Is that the same weird instrument you had at school?" She was sitting on the roof, leaning against the side of the house, with a guitar placed across her knees. He was staring at it suspiciously.

"Not the exact same. That one's lying in my empty apartment as we speak. I got this one second hand in Piccadilly Circus yesterday." She continued fooling with some chords. "I feel like I should be on the cover of a folk album right now." He just watched her, transfixed, clearly still bamboozled by the sound the instrument made.

She smiled at his confusion, as he looked over the frozen orchards. It was Ron's birthday, and they were waiting for his and Hermione's imminent arrival.

Not much had happened since Christmas. She was still trying to ignore her feelings for George: feelings she had thought were dead, but were coming back to haunt her nearly every night as she dreamt. He was nearly unrecognizable from the man who had stolen her away nearly three months ago. True, there was still a sadness in his eyes that she doubted would ever go away, and true, he still had occasional nightmares, but according to Mrs. Weasley, the difference was tremendous. He laughed easier now, was more ready to break into exciting conversation with his family members, he was teasing her mercilessly…when she asked him the reason for his new leaf, he would just shrug and raise an eyebrow in her direction.

"Plus, Fred used to hate it when people would feel sorry for themselves for too long. He'd take the mickey out of them something awful." He'd say.

With much of his old personality shining through, Theresa was taking great measures to resist temptation. It wasn't working very well, especially because Ginny was encouraging her to "go for it" every step of the way. "He loves you." She would say, as they would sit on her bed, sorting through old family photos, "He's just scared he won't have a chance."

But, Theresa would say to herself, it's really the opposite. She didn't deserve anything he had to give her, least of all a relationship, when she had so badly botched it up in the first place. And every time she would look at him, with any thought that was more than friendly, the little voice in her head would shout at her to get over herself.

Right now, however, they were just relishing in the chilly weather, and he sat down next to her, rubbing his hands together.

She started to softly play "Blackbird," and he closed his eyes as he listened.

"That's very pretty…did you write it?"

She laughed. "It's so funny to me how you're British and yet you don't know who the Beatles are." She continued the beautiful chord progression.

"Are there words?"

"Sure there are words."

"Can you sing them?"

"Do you want me to?"

"Yeah."

She looked ahead of her, over the fields, a small dreamy smile on her lips as the color in her cheeks rose. She began to sing the melody softly, enjoying the poignant words. He just sat and listened.

"What do you think that's about?" he said, exhaling great puffs of frozen air.

"Dunno exactly. I suppose it's about picking yourself back up…overcoming obstacles. It's kind of what you're doing. You know, re-learning how to fly."

He looked thoughtful, reaching over to pluck one of the strings of the guitar, and reveling in the sound that it generated.

"I hate to break it to you, T, but I can't fly." He said, amused.

She gave a false exasperated sigh, and couldn't help but laugh. She was doing a lot of that around him lately.

"Here I am, trying to make an analogy, and you have to go botch it up. Classic." She punched him softly on the shoulder. "Want to talk?"

He smirked. "Sure….about what?"

For weeks now, she had been trying to start up a conversation about the joke shop, which was currently lying desolate in Diagon Alley. According to Ginny, George was still paying the rent to keep the space. He just didn't seem to want to start up business again. But every time, she chickened out, nervous that it was cause a massive argument, and this time was no different.

"Oh, I don't know. How about the flower beds?"

**

Theresa was glad to see that, although George had consumed a couple glasses of Firewhiskey, he seemed to be able to tolerate the amount. Indeed, it loosened him up a considerable bit, but that only aided him in laughing and joking with his family during Ron's birthday celebration. They had all indulged a bit in drink, but it certainly wasn't vulgar. And Theresa was keeping a close eye on George and the bottle. The dug into the lavish meal created by Mrs. Weasley, eating their way through 4 courses, then welcomed the double chocolate cake with equal enthusiasm. The Weasley kitchen was an absolute explosion of noise and food.

All in all, there were a lot of dirty dishes left over.

Later that evening, they bid goodnight to Ron and Hermione, who were currently renting out a flat in Diagon Alley, and shortly after, Harry was on his way back to Hogsmeade. It was amazing how the noise level diminished so much merely by their exit.

"You go on to bed, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. George and I will clean up." Theresa said, starting to clear away the plates and cutlery. For once, the adults did not protest, and after bidding goodnight to the two of them, ascended the stairs.

"Why did you just volunteer me?" George said, bemused, and sitting down again in his chair, "I'm too drunk to function."

"That is a lie." She scoffed, as she flicked her wand, making the soap skid across the surface of the plates. Her senses were getting muddled again, which she could not allow to happen. Not when she had something to discuss with George. And she wasn't sure if it was because of the alcohol or not, but she finally had the confidence to talk about it. Even so, she kept her back to him, supposedly working on cleaning up the kitchen.

"Ron needs a job. Did you hear him talking about that?" She started. He didn't respond or even react, as far as she could tell. "Auror office isn't paying him enough to make his rent and invest in money for him and Hermione."

"Yeah, those Ministry jobs seem to take all your time and not really give you much in return." He sighed. She heard him get up and wander to the window in the living room. "I feel bad for him."

"I was thinking…" it was coming out, "maybe he could get a job, uh…working in your shop."

She hadn't stopped doing the dishes, so there was some kind of noise to block out any awkward pauses that might result from her statement. It was serving its purpose. Not to mention she was too scared to turn around and look at him, but he didn't respond for so long that she absolutely had to. She was alarmed to find him glaring at her, his hand planted on the back of his chair.

"My shop?"

"Yes…you know, the one in-"

"I know what you're talking about." He was talking so low, that a shiver ran up her spine, making her cold as ice. "And it's not gonna happen, T." He turned away from her, flicking his wand to send the serving bowls just a little too dangerously fast towards her.

"Why?" she had expected him to be taken aback yes, but this…this was anger. And frankly, it made her annoyed, which clearly showed in her tone. "Why not, George? You've been away from it for five years, it's just _sitting _there-"

"Because it's purpose has been served! That is the LAST thing I want to think about right now, why…why would you even get it into your head that I could go back there? Be haunted by that memory? That was something I started with FRED!" He was almost yelling now. He was always so daunting when he was this mad, but she was stubborn, and set her jaw firmly.

"If you don't want to go back, why are you still paying it off?!" She asked shrilly, casting a hasty silencing charm around them. "And don't you think this is something that Fred would want you to do? Continue with the business, maybe use your gifts?"

"Of course, you wouldn't understand." He said, his tone deadly, and shaking his head.

"What is there not to understand?" She said, stepping closer to him, defiant. "that you can't man up and take a chance?"

He was nose to nose with her, almost, his eyes blazing. "Do not pretend that you know what I went through. What I'm still going through. I let you off easy."

"That was your choice, wasn't it? Didn't have to let me off easy, but since you did, do NOT throw that back in my face! And you're right! I have…NO IDEA what you're going through! But I did know Fred, George. I knew him well." She paused, to catch her breath, "and he would hate you for this. For neglecting something the two of you created together, that was seemingly too important to either one of you for you to just sit by and let it rot!"

He grabbed her suddenly by the shoulders, and she was surprised when she found herself quaking in fear. George had never hit her or abused her, but the amount of anger pulsing through him right now scared her a bit too much. "Don't throw it all away." She whispered, her voice quivering, as she stared up into his storming eyes. He seemed to stare back at her for ages, his eyes searching hers. She could hear the clock in the living room, ticking unnaturally loud, and was focused on nothing else except keeping her face impassive.

Then, something she hadn't expected in the _slightest_ bit happened: he kissed her.

It was a kiss completely different than the ones of their youth, and as she surrendered to him, giving in, and wrapped her arms around his neck, she could feel the heaviness of the embrace, all the sadness that she had caused him, the passion they still had for each other, and the incredible lightness of bliss. But at the same time, there was the element of his youth, his mischievousness: his old self. His hands came up to cup her face gently, stroking her cheek, moving down to her hips as he backed her against the table…

They broke apart, breathing heavily, eyes smoldering. She could feel tears streaming down her face. How had _that_ happened? She didn't know anything except that she needed to be close to him again, and she knew by the way he grabbed her hand, and began to lead her up the stairs that he needed the same. She tried to slow her breathing, to calm her excitement, but found it impossible as they bolted up the stairs.

They tumbled like teenagers into his bedroom. "George." She whispered against his lips as he pushed her against the wall, pulling her shirt from her body. This was all happening too quickly, she thought. They had to be of sound mind to be doing this again, it was too much for either of them to commit to a sexual relationship after all they'd been through.

Yet, as he kissed her again, and she inhaled his amazing scent of cinnamon and gunpowder, she found it rather difficult to protest.

They spoke no words as they quickly shed the remainder of their clothing. Then, all the sounds that could be heard were her gentle sighs, and his groans of satisfaction as he pushed into her, and she eagerly arched against him. In this place, with her hands tangled in his hair, his hot mouth on her burning skin, she found herself believing that they could make this work.

**

I didn't want their first time together again being terribly explicit, it just didn't feel right as I was writing it. Look forward to that in the next chapter ;)

Read and review, darlings!


	10. Catharsis

This chapter has a couple little vignettes at the end. More and more, I'm starting to like that style…there may be more of that in the future.

Anywho. Read and review, as usual.

**

He seemed to be getting plenty of sleep, but she sat at the end of the bed, figuratively bashing her head against a wall.

"_I am. So. Stupid_._"_ drifted, on repeat, through her brain. She shook her long dark hair out of her face, and turned to look at him. God, he was gorgeous. It was something she had been trying to overlook since she got here, but she couldn't very well overlook now. Especially when she was still aching in places that hadn't ached that way in a long, long, time.

How did it happen? She wished she knew. That seemed to be the way with them, being as impulsive as they were. It always had been that way. Neither could ever remember how they got there, because once they were there, nothing else really mattered. She wanted to lie back down next to him, free of all baggage, be able to sleep comfortably, but she couldn't. She hadn't been emotionally ready for this.

"How can you sleep so soundly?" She whispered, pushing a strand of ginger hair away from his face. The thing about George and sleeping was that once he was out, he was out, and a nuclear explosion couldn't wake him. For now, she was glad of this, as she didn't really want to talk just yet.

She finally did lie back, next to him, trying to remember exactly what brought this on. It was Ron's birthday, so they had had a few drinks…no. This hadn't been some drunken frenzy. The fight. She covered her eyes with her hands. They had always had great make-up sex. They were probably still so used to what came after a fight, that they hadn't even considered stopping at any point.

"_What are you making?" He spoke from the couch, throwing down his accounting book and walking up to her. _

"_Brownies." She responded, scraping a bit more from the mixing bowl into the pan, but saving enough to eat some of the raw batter. She opened the oven door, and delicately slid the tray into the heat. "For breakfast." She turned to face him, licking some chocolate off the tip of her finger, and eyeing him sensually. "Wanna help me lick the bowl?"_

_He smirked dangerously as he came upon her, and encircled her waist with his hands, pulling himself flush against her, She was pinned to the counter. _

"_Doesn't that have raw eggs in it?" He said, breathing against her ear and sending shivers down her spine. She felt him slipping her panties off her hips, and already, her cheeks were flushed a deep red with excitement. His eyes burned into hers, and their lips connected in a deep, carnal kiss. _

"_Doesn't matter." She moaned, as he slid a finger inside her, kissing her neck. "It's fucking chocolate." he had added another finger, and with his free hand, had started to remove his trousers. She muttered several swears as his erection pressed into her belly. _

"_In advance…" he groaned against her, pulling out his fingers, and entering her roughly. She gasped in pleasure. "I'm sorry if the brownies burn."_

"T?" she nearly jumped out of her skin.

"You normally sleep like a rock." She said, turning to look at him. His eyes reflected a small patch of moonlight that was filtering through his window. She moved closer to him. "What's up?"

"I'm thinking." He said in a low rumble, taking her hand, and intertwining his fingers with her own.

"About why we had sex? Yeah, me too." She dropped her head deeply into the pillow. He reached out to cradle her chin in his hand, caressing her cheek, tucking her hair behind her ear. There was so much of…_something_ in the way he looked at her. She wanted it to go away, because whatever it was, she didn't deserve it.

"Do you think it was a mistake?"

"I…don't know. I don't think so. I just wish it was under better circumstances." She scooted even closer to him, kissing him softly, "you know…like if I hadn't been a bitch and run out on you, if your family wasn't broken, your brother wasn't dead, if we were married with kids by now." She bit her lip, "because the truth is, there really is nobody else I want to be with, ever. Do _you_ think it was a mistake?"

He shook his head, "I don't think I was ready for it." He started, turning to look at the ceiling, "but in hindsight, I don't think it was a mistake, either."

There was silence between them for a moment, before he finally turned back, "you really don't want to be with anyone else? I'm flattered." He smirked, tilting his head to kiss her deeply. She responded happily, sinking into the embrace, and allowing his tongue to dance with hers. He was growing hard against her, making her moan, with his kisses like fireworks. "You're so beautiful."

_She didn't want to do this_, her brain told her.

But in that moment, in bed with him, she realized she really didn't give a fuck what her brain thought.

"Thank you." She smiled, as he eased on top of her, anchoring one of her arms above her head. "Are we doing this again?" she breathed against his lips.

"Please?" he moaned into the kiss, as he felt her arch against him. She bit his lip sensuously, trapping him for only a moment, before allowing him to continue his assault. "I'll be quiet, puddle duck." He trailed his hot mouth to just behind her ear, making her gasp in pleasure, then continued his path to her neck, cradling her body gently in his arms. She was growing very wet very quickly, and could feel her heart pounding out of her chest. She wondered, briefly, why she could have ever thought this was a mistake.

"Alright" She breathed, adjusting herself underneath him so that he was pulled up against her. She felt his smile against her skin, as he nipped and kiss every square inch of her that he could. She nearly cried out as his tongue flicked across one of her nipples. "George…"

He moved back up to her face, letting his hands drift all over her slender figure, reveling in the delicate curves of her hips and breasts, kissing her, and resting himself in between her legs. And she _did_ cry out that time, a soft whimper, as she felt him penetrate her. Her hands were in his hair, and she arched against him again, her mouth slightly open, her eyes lidded. This was what pleasure was, where she was, clinging to him, this close to another human being. And no matter what she told herself, no matter how many times she tried to convince herself otherwise, she had to resign to the fact that sex with him wasn't just for laughs. There was true passion, and true love. It had been like that since their first time together, and neither could really explain it.

She loved him. She really, _really_ loved him.

His hands were caressing her soft skin, grasping onto her hips as he began to thrust into her, and he groaned in combined effort and ecstasy. She clenched her muscles tight, wrapping a leg around him, muttering his name over and over, letting it spill from the tip of her tongue like water dribbling from her mouth. She wanted him deeper, more of him, and with every thrust, she was satiated, finding it impossible to cover up her little sighs of pleasure. She delighted in the feeling of his shoulder muscles under her hands, bunching and relaxing as he brought her closer to the brink.

"God, T…" he murmured against her neck, grinding against her. She held back a scream as she felt him slow his pace purposefully…painfully.

"Faster," she pleaded, gripping his strong arms, spreading her legs wider so he could go deeper. But he didn't seem to want to listen. He continued his slow rhythm, looking at her with naughty eyes, filled with sex and mischievousness.

"Please!" she whispered dangerously in his ear. She trailed her tongue down the side of his neck, biting the delicate flesh, "I'm so close. George…"

He seemed to think his torture had lasted long enough, because suddenly he was moving fast within her. She delighted in the sound of his body slamming against hers, of the sweat dripping from his brow and hers, of the unbelievable amounts of gratification he was giving her, and, she was sure she was giving him.

"C'mon," he grunted against her, "let go." His finger was now on her center, and he rubbed it slowly, gyrating his hips. She felt the beginnings of the end approaching, and she rocked against his hand and hips, throwing her head back against the pillow, taking in great gasps of air, and her moans were growing steadily louder, until…

"I'm-"

She felt it hit her like a ton of bricks, but if that sensation were pleasant. Her orgasm raked heavily through her body, her muscles clenching him tight inside her, feeling like someone had just set a bomb off in her womb, and she had to scream into his shoulder so as to ensure that she wouldn't wake the whole house with her pleasure, as she tried to make it last longer, continuing to pulse against him. Her actions sent him over the edge, and she delighted in the feeling of him as he came, groaning against her neck, somehow managing to speak her name. She loved his face in ecstasy, and held him close as he road out the aftershocks of his orgasm.

They collapsed in unison, and he didn't roll off her. The body heat between them was too satisfying, the lingering numbness of having experienced an amazing climax made neither one anxious to separate too quickly. She looked up at him, into his beautiful eyes that in this moment, were the "Old George" eyes. His hand was stroking her cheek, her neck, he was kissing her forehead…loving her.

"You're right." He whispered, reluctantly leaving his place on top of her, and instead lying beside her. She rested her head on his chest, absentmindedly stroking his arm, and looking up at the ceiling.

"About what?"

"The shop." He sighed, "Fred would want it. And I'm sure I want it, too. I just…haven't realized it yet." He kissed the top of her head, encircling her waist with his arm. "What should we do?"

"About you and me? Or you and the shop?"

"Both."

She sighed, turning to look at him, propping herself up on her elbows. "OK." She began, somehow finding the confidence to hold his gaze. "I feel like this whole 'us' thing was a bit-"

"Unexpected?"

She nodded.

"So, it might be nice to slow it down…you know, maybe not continue jumping right into bed?" she smirked, placing her lips to his, "even though we both want to." He smiled against her lips, grabbing hold of her so as to keep her there longer.

"But, you can still kiss me like that." She said, breathless, when he released her. "You always did have the magic touch." She laid her head on his chest again, watching him. He looked content. She wouldn't trade that in for millions of galleons.

"When can we speed up again?" he asked, tracing patterns lazily on her back. She shrugged.

"When we both feel like we can. Once the shop's up and running…if that's what you want to do."

He pondered for a moment, before nodding, and saying softly, "It is."

They lay in comfortable silence for a moment longer, before, "So, when does this whole "not jumping into bed" thing start? Because if it doesn't start til four, that leaves us with one whole hour…" He smirked.

She bit her lip sexily, and giggled as he pulled her down under the covers.

**

"I just told you." Ginny stared in disbelief at this wreck of a girl who had just flopped herself down on her bed. "Don't make me say it again."

"Whoa…" the younger girl said softly, her eyes as large as dinner plates. "I totally didn't think that was going to happen."

"Neither did I. We got in an argument, and well…we-"

Ginny held up her hand, "OK, normally I would want all the grizzly details, but seeing as it's my brother…"

"Don't worry, I understand." Theresa smirked, getting up and walking to the window. "I wouldn't want to know either." She rubbed her neck nervously. Two floors above them, George was still peacefully asleep, but Theresa, needing some kind of outlet besides George, had hurried to Ginny's room the second she could safely say that she was awake.

"I'm guessing these are your 'walk of shame' clothes?" Ginny said, starting to get over the shock, and chuckling.

"Yeah. And my 'walk of shame' make-up. I need a hot shower." She sighed. She was trying to think of the last time she had had sex before last night, because she had definitely not hurt this much the morning after in the past. "I'm too old for this."

"Yeah, you're a real octogenarian." Ginny scoffed, watching Theresa pace back and forth. "So…talk to me girl! That…happened, so now what? Are you guys-"

"We have a deal." Theresa said, sitting back down and facing Ginny, "that we'll get serious again when the shop is up and running…and all that's back in business. When our lives are apparently back in order."

"Yeah, because sex isn't serious."

"Hey! We both agreed that it was a…minor loss of self decorum." She looked sheepishly away as Ginny gave her an appraising look, "and stop bringing up the sex. You're just aching for me to tell you how good he is-"

"STOP!!!" Ginny covered her ears with her hands, "NO." She looked at Theresa for a little while, studying her. She seemed happy. Hopeful, even. Something interesting had lit back up in her eyes, which was nice to see. Ginny was surprised at herself, also: here was the girl who had been in love with her favorite brother, had dated him and almost married him, then completely left him in the dust with not so much as a forwarding address. So, why did she find herself rooting for them?

She attributed it to the fact that George had forgiven her. Her mother had forgiven her. And, she was pretty sure, if he were alive, Fred would have forgiven her. The Weasleys were used to their family members making mistakes. Percy had been a towering example.

True, the Weasleys disliked betrayers: but Ginny was proud to see that her family forgave when forgiveness was necessary.

"I'm going to go freshen up." Theresa sighed, abandoning her teasing of the girl. "Next time you and Harry have sex, I'll be waiting to not hear all the details."

"As if. What are you guys doing today?"

"Take out the brooms."

"Have sex in the broom closet,"

"Go to Diagon Alley,"

"Have sex in a side street…"

"Talk to Lawnsby about the shop space,"

"Have sex in the bathroom,"

"HEY! I am not a nymphomaniac!"

Ginny scoffed again, smiling at Theresa, "Oh please, I went to school with you two, don't think I don't remember."

Theresa blushed, "yes well…I'm taking a shower." And shaking her head, she left the room, leaving Ginny to her thoughts.

**

A half hour later, she found herself in the orchards. "Hello again, Fred." She flopped down in front of Fred's headstone, this time carrying a mug of coffee and a croissant on a plate. "You're lack of a body makes it impossible for you to eat, so I figured I'd just feed myself again." This had become somewhat of a ritual over the past couple months. She'd try to come out and have breakfast here, both to talk out what was bothering her (or making her happy), and to get a fresh start to the day. The picture at the base of the headstone had long since blown away, so she had brought out a new one she had found while rifling through old photos with Ginny: this one had Fred and George, as little ones, looking curiously down at their baby sister, who was asleep in a cradle.

"It would be lovely to get your opinion on something, but seeing as that probably won't happen…" she sighed, after she had placed the photo in the empty space, and taken a bite from her croissant.

"He's opening the shop up again. And this time, I'm going to stay put. For good." She had finally gotten over feeling foolish when "talking to Fred" like this. Besides, on these visits, there was usually something strange in the air: like another, warm presence. Whether it was embarrassment flaring in her, or an actual, other-worldly being, she didn't really care to know. One way or another, it made her feel content. Like she could say anything. Because Fred would always let her say whatever she wanted, and it reminded her of that.

"_My mum always says 'it can only get worse'" he chuckled, seeing her in such a state of distress. "And honestly, all couples fight. It would be unnatural if you didn't." _

"_But this was the first time."_

"_And it won't be the last." _

It was so typical. Every time she would have a row with George, she would shoot right over to Fred to complain about him. And he would usually indulge in making fun of George, to make her feel better.

Not that he ever actually meant anything mean he said about his twin.

"That's not the reason I'm here today, though. We didn't fight." She smiled, taking a sip of her coffee, and enjoying the feel of the early morning sun. "We sort of did last night, but…it was over pretty quickly."

"I think I'm keeping my promise to you. Making him better, that is. He certainly seems a lot like his old self…"

"And yet, at the same time, I keep wondering if he's actually experienced a true catharsis. Sure, he's cried oceans, and you're mum thought he was going crazy. But that's not really what a _catharsis_ is, is it? He needs a purge of emotions, if you ask me. I just wonder what'll do it for him."

With that, she stopped her vocal musings, and instead just sat, eating and drinking her breakfast, reveling in memories of the past, and hopes for the future. As was almost customary now, she left a bunch of gerbera daisies when she left, turning back to the Burrow, and feeling ready to face the day ahead of her. And it was all thanks to Fred and George.

**

You like? Let me know!


	11. Billy Shakespeare and Hot Tea

It's been a while since my last update, I only just stopped crying from my lack of reviews.

:P

OK, I soldier on.

**

"_Molly? Stay with us, Molly…something's gone wrong, we're doing everything we can to keep them both, but the second one's got the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck."_

_She had done this before, had gone through the tension and sheer agony of childbirth, but never did she think she would hear those words: a mother's worst nightmare, the death of a child. Twins, they had told her, often suffered from complications. But the first one born had been so easy, it was like he couldn't wait another minute to taste his first few breaths. _

_She hovered in and out of darkness, the brightly shining lights seeming dim as her eyes lidded further. But she had to stay coherent, had to make sure her children were safe, her baby boy…she could feel tear tracks on her face, feel Arthur's hand gripping hers tight, whispering in her ear reassuring words, attempting to mask the fear in his own voice. She had pictured them for so long, while she waited for this moment, had pictured how they would interact with each other and their siblings, how she would decorate their room, hug them til they were blue in the face, make them sweaters, take care of them when they were sick…and suddenly all that didn't seem possible: she hadn't envisioned only one surviving._

_Weren't twins two parts of the same whole? _

_She was only barely aware of the event, but she could not forget the moment when the second infant was born that day. He wasn't moving, and she was sure that she had never screamed so loud in her life, and never would again. Grief overtook her as the mediwitches took the child away from the birthing area, to try and save him. She shook her head in denial._

"_Molly…Molly, what are we going to name him?" Arthur whispered against her ear, his tears mingling with hers, now not bothering to try and hide his sadness that they could possibly lose a child. She couldn't think about a name right now…wouldn't that break her heart even more?_

_And then she heard him scream as his new, tiny lungs expanded, and despite her dreariness, despite her absolute fatigue, she propped herself up on her elbows to see him. He was flailing madly, eyes shut, mouth wide as beautiful, clean oxygen flooded him. His twin lay next to him, lip trembling, a tiny hand haphazardly brushing against his shaking body. _

"_George." She whimpered, smiling and crying. "You're something special." And collapsing back down, she cried against her husband, unsure of whether or not she would ever feel emotions these strong again. _

Mrs. Weasley opened her eyes slowly. How ironic it was, she thought as she eased out of bed, seeing the time flashing at midnight, that both her sons had wrestled with death, and only one had ultimately won. She pushed her red hair away from her face, recalling the vivid memory of George's birth like it was yesterday.

She gingerly walked across the cold wood floor, slipping on her booties, and opening her bedroom door. From her place on the stairs, she could see George, working tirelessly on plans for the re-vamped joke shop. It was impossible for her to not feel a swelling of pride at his progress of late. He had come through the rough of the storm, and was focused on getting back on track again.

She made her way downstairs, and passed by him working at the table, trying not to interrupt his work. She filled a mug with hot tea, and brought it over to him.

The kitchen table was completely covered in books and parchment.

"George, don't you think you should go to bed?" Mrs. Weasley came up behind her son, smoothing his hair and placing the tea in front of him. "Nothing will change before morning." She surveyed what he was working on with interest. Once the twins had become successful in their joke shop endeavors, and actually proved that they weren't throwing away their lives, she made up for her anger at them by actually taking stock in what they were doing. Currently, George seemed to be jotting down ideas for new products, with the help of a stack of potions and charms books. Arithmancy charts littered the paper around him, as well as a children's book, entitled _Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory_.

"Yeah, soon." He replied vaguely, as he added something else to the Arithmancy charts, looked at it for a moment, then added a number to the large leather-bound book in front of him. "Checks and balances, mum. Gotta do it."

Mrs. Weasley softly kissed the top of his head, "when is the big day?"

"I was thinking April 1st. For a bunch of different reasons." He said, once again distracted by something he had just read in _Classic Potions for the Medieval Wizard_. "So, if we're going to meet that goal, I have to finish all this stuff in a month." He looked, somewhat overwhelmed, across the expanse of literature in front of them, "which…may or may not happen."

"Where's your business partner?"

"Asleep. I sent her to bed an hour ago. Plus, some things…I just need to do myself." He gestured to the slightly battered folder to his left, which had Fred's untidy scrawl across it. In it, Molly knew, were the ideas the twins had had starting from their first year at Hogwarts. Indeed, it was now so thick that George needed to bind it with copious amounts of ropes to get it to shut. "But, to answer your question, yes I _do_ think I should go to bed. Just in about another hour or so."

Mrs. Weasley sat down at the end of the table, diagonal to him, and watched as he once again peered intently at the sheet of parchment next to him. She could almost see the cogs in his head working.

She was so proud of him.

"How are you doing?" She asked softly. He didn't look up from his paper.

"I'm going to be OK." He said, after a while, resigning to the fact that if his mother was in the room, he wouldn't be able to concentrate. "This all seems easy now, in the large scope of things."

"She's been helping, then?" When Mrs. Weasley had first heard that her son was taking up with Theresa again, her guard had instantly gone up. It wasn't that she didn't like Theresa, hadn't forgiven her, or anything like that. She just didn't think she could handle George again if history repeated itself. However, as the previous month had progressed, she understood more. She could see the change in his eyes, which she had never thought would look happy again.

Now, the tiniest of smiles played across his features. She always loved it when George smiled. True, he and Fred had been identical in nearly every way, but there had always been something uncanny about George's smile. It's like he hadn't had to learn it, like he was born to do it, and instill happiness in others. His eyes seemed to crinkle more, had more kindness behind them, there were more creases around his mouth when he would beam…then again, Mrs. Weasley thought, and it broke her heart to even think it, she had almost forgotten the subtle nuances of her deceased son's face.

"Yeah." He said, leaning back in his chair, and sipping the tea gingerly, as it was still steaming. "She makes me laugh. We can talk about anything, and she's stubborn enough to handle me." He added with a chuckle. "Which is a feat in and of itself. But she's always been able to do that. And I was worse at Hogwarts than I am now."

"George…"

"I know you're worried. You're supposed to be. But I love her, and she loves me." He set his mug down, and surveyed his beautiful mother, his chin in his hands. How was it that he had never appreciated her before the age of eighteen? Never _fully_ appreciated her? He had taken for granted all the meals, toy broomsticks, clean bed linens, kisses on the cheek…"I love you too, you know that, right?"

"I do know that." She said, smiling at him, and sending her empty mug of tea to the sink. He stood from the table, sweeping his wand across it, cleaning up the mess of scribblings and calculations. He had always been good with that sort of thing: he had been the business head. When everything was arranged so he could come back to work on it in the morning, he went over to his mother, who had also stood, and pulled her into a tight hug. She smelled of his childhood, which made him have to hastily blink away tears. Smell was such a powerful sense, he thought. He kissed her temple lovingly, before separating from her.

"Thanks for the tea. I'm going to head up and say goodnight to Theresa." How was it that holding on to his mother did not bring back his days of youth, which he had always linked her to? He wished he could squeeze every last memory from her, relive it all with the knowledge that one day he would lose the person closest to his heart, so he could be sure to gain as much as possible from life. With one final squeeze, he let go of his mum.

He knocked on the door, and receiving entry, opened it. She was lying back, a book extended in front of her, eyes flying across the page. When he came and sat down next to her, she looked at him.

"Hello, there." She said, smiling. He worked his way up next to her, bending down to kiss her, before examining the cover of the book she was reading.

"_A Midsummer Night's Dream_…more from that Shakey guy?" He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear as she looked up at him. She laughed quietly, seeming to be unable to erase her happy demeanor.

"Yup. It's a laugh. You should read some of his stuff sometime."

"Nah, I can't. Picked up that _Tempest_ one that you were reading once…I can't really get past all the "thee" and "thou" and "couldst" rubbish. Even if it is brilliant."

She marked her place in the play, and placed it on her bedside table. "How'd it go?"

"I'm almost done balancing the books. We left a lot to be done when we went into hiding at Muriel's. I have a suspicion that lots of documents I still need are missing. Fred had all these hiding places for them, and I didn't really get to ask him where all of them were." He heaved a heavy sigh. "But I'm trying not to worry about that now. Funds are where they should be. And I'm tired, so I'm going to bed." He winked at her. "Want to join?"

She laughed again, pulling him down to her to kiss him once more. He delighted in her soft lips, her deep femininity, her graceful neck…and as he kissed her, he found himself trying to make up for the five plus years that he had been unable to do so.

He felt that she was filling the void.

They broke apart, and he leaned his forehead against hers for a moment, "you're wonderful." She whispered to him, her eyebrows knitted. He chuckled and kissed the tip of her nose quickly before bounding off the bed, and to the doorway.

"Goodnight. Last chance…" he teased, smirking. She shook her head as she picked up her book again.

"Maybe tomorrow, darling." She said, the hint of a flush rising in her cheeks. She heard him close the door behind him, and heard his distinctive laughter filling the hall outside her door.

"I love you." She murmured, almost to herself, suddenly finding it rather difficult to read another line of dialogue.

Outside her door, he pressed his ear against the wood, hoping to hear the sounds of her getting under her cozy covers. Was it strange that he always wanted to know that she was tucked in? Secure as possible without him there beside her to make absolutely sure? He meandered slowly up the stairs, smirking to himself, imagining her long eyelashes lying daintily on the tops of her cheeks, her perfect lips parted as she dreamed of countless things and people, the feel of her when she arched her body against his…

"Oh, shut up Fred." He muttered as he found his way up to his room and flopped down on his bed. "If you were alive, I'd give you a thrashing."

He found it comforting to have these "mini" conversations with his brother, when there was no one else around. He felt confident doing this, mainly because he couldn't actually hear Fred _responding_. No, he was content to dream up what Fred might have said if he could have read George's mind.

"_You know brother, I should be terribly angry at you for eyeing my girlfriend," George said, leaning across the table to talk softly to Fred, who was a bit distracted by Theresa's set of legs directly to his left._

"_But you know that a fight with me is worse than the crime I'm actually committing." Fred finished for him, looking away from Theresa, who was coming towards them, and helping himself to some tomatoes. "She's a keeper, by the way. Don't lose her." _

With Fred's reassuring words still drifting about in his brain, he rolled over and, still fully clothed, drifted into a deep sleep.

**

I'm going to be doing more chapters soon from George's point of view, because it's been a bit lacking for him until now. What do you think? Let me know!


	12. Everything Was Right

Thanks for the reviews as always, folks! Sorry I'm behind on reviewing _your_ stories. It's been a hectic last couple of weeks. But that will change soon!

This chapter's structured a bit differently, in the fact that it's _like_ a flashback, but not really. At least the first part. Please read with an open mind, and I welcome anything you have to say.

There will be more George/Theresa action to come. And it will be flippin' adorable.

Alright. Read.

**

George was used to being mauled.

It had happened when he and Fred were five, when his legs were bitten by a dog. It was nothing though. The mediwitches had been able to work their magic and soon he was back running around with his brothers, just a bit more wary of the neighbor's Irish Setter. Then, there were the endless Quidditch injuries: broken arms, torn ligaments, cracked skull, dislocated hip…the list went on. But Madam Pomfrey was used to this, and also used to Fred and George getting just a little too competitive for their own good. She had them back on their feet after a good 2 hours in the hospital wing, usually shaking her head and laughing at jokes they would crack to make her smile. Pomfrey, almost everybody knew, didn't laugh. Didn't smile. But for some reason, George in particular had usually been able to make her chuckle. And because of this, they considered themselves to be closer to her than anyone else in the whole school.

But the injuries didn't stop there. Summertime at the Burrow inevitably lead to more testing of the twins' products for the joke shop, and explosions were the norm. Granted, the majority of the time, they knew when to get out of the way before anything actually happened, but once in a while, they'd catch the full blast and be hurled backwards against their bedroom wall. They kept spell books handy for just these instances. Once they got into their shop, these blasts were more contained to the laboratory, so the risk of being mauled, as George always put it, was quite less.

When Fred and he agreed to assist the Order in transporting Harry from Little Whinging, there was much excitement. Their mother had been very wary of allowing the majority of her children, and her husband, to partake, but her worry for Harry's safety finally won out, and she had consented that they could go. She had kissed them all on the cheek, and the twins had hugged her fiercely. Sure, Moody had planned this down to the last second, but there was always a chance that there could be a flaw in the plan. However, they had approached it much in the same way as they did everything: with a spring in their step and not a spot of fear.

George had never taken Polyjuice Potion, which was strange considering that it would have been a great way to get out of sticky situations at Hogwarts. He attributed it to the fact that he and Fred would never have spent a month at school brewing a potion to change them into other people when they derived so much pleasure from confusing the hell out of everyone they could by being identical. It was even stranger, in the moment they were all gathered in Harry's aunt's kitchen, that he saw himself change. He could almost feel all the stress Harry was experiencing simply by donning his appearance. Granted, he didn't try to surmise just how much was going through the younger boy's mind. But he and Fred were there to help in any way they could.

Fred had later told him that he knew something had gone wrong. He had blasted a few Death Eaters off their brooms, praying he wasn't a murderer, when he had the most overwhelming feeling of fear. It was the feeling you usually get when about to jump off a cliff: a great plummeting in the stomach, and it had lasted until he and his father had spun off the Portkey, into their backyard. He had forgotten who exactly had told Mr. Weasley and he that something was wrong with George, but minor details like that didn't really matter.

"I thought you were dead." He had said, rubbing his neck. It was a nervous habit of his, something he did when he was stressed out. George just smiled from his prone position on the couch, trying to ignore the pain shooting through the right side of his head. Pain was always easy to ignore when Fred was around, no matter what the malady. He raised his hand to feel where his ear had once been, wincing. Theresa had gone to fix him a cup of tea, and bring a compress for his head. He wanted to have the energy to get up and hug and kiss her, hold her close and tell her to forget doting on him and just come and sit with Fred and him. He wanted everything, including Voldemort, to just disappear again, and have a laugh with the people who mattered most to him. He was confident, that one day that would happen.

Yes, George was used to physical injury. It came with being both a wizard, and a Weasley.

He couldn't really pinpoint where and what he was doing when he realized Fred had died. That entire day seemed like a blur. One moment they were in their flat, eating dinner with Theresa and Angelina, having a few laughs, when suddenly Fred had jumped, almost like he had been jolted from a bad dream.

"What is it?" Angelina had asked. Theresa and George were staring at him as he slowly extracted the burning fake Galleon from his pocket. It was glowing red.

"Neville." He had said softly, putting down his fork, and squinting to read the message that was now forming around the circumference of the coin. When he had done so, he handed it to Angelina, who passed it around the table, until finally it had reached George.

"Defend Hogwarts." He spoke, grasping Theresa's hand under the table, before abruptly sending the dishes to the sink and rising out of his chair. "Let's go."

His memories, from that point on, were muddled. He remembered Aberforth, remembered Kingsley assigning jobs, McGonagall sending suits of armor to fight, sitting with Fred and Theresa against the wall, waiting for the call to arms.

"If this all goes to pieces," Fred had whispered to him, "I'll never forgive myself for failing Harry."

"Don't worry," George had whispered back, "It won't."

Minutes later, they were on their feet, all three of them sprinting in different directions, to different posts. Why were they separated, thought George? Nothing was as strong as the force he and Fred could generate when they were together. But, having rarely being apart from him, George wasn't exactly sure how he would handle on his own. It definitely wouldn't be up to the Weasley Twin standard of invincibility. He never understood, after that day, why he had been so confident that nothing bad would happen, that good would triumph over every evil. He supposed he had always been the optimistic twin. Fred was more of a fatalist in most matters, which might have been part of the reason why they were such perfect siblings.

George didn't trust his thoughts much anymore.

The actual moment of Fred's death he had repressed. There was really no part of him that wished to recall it either, as the fact of it was enough to cripple him for the rest of his life. But he did remember the small things: the texture of Fred's shirt as he clung to him, shaking him, trying to wake him up. The dirt around his eyes that was creased from smiling, when moments after, his life had been snatched away. His fingernails bitten to the quick. Everything about him was so…_alive_. So seeing him dead was just a cruel twist of nature.

If he really pushed himself, which he only did on either his birthday or Christmas, he could remember vague details. Percy trying to get him to move from the floor, like he expected George to just leave Fred in the hall with the rest of the dead to go home. It was preposterous. He remembered the strangely strong grip that Percy had, and his father getting in front of him, shaking him, looking into his deadened eyes with his own red-rimmed ones, saying something like, "We've won, we've won…". Won what, exactly? He didn't remember the funeral. Except writing down on a piece of parchment what he thought Fred's epitaph should read.

"You were closest to him." His mom had whimpered, shoving a quill in his hands, "it has to be you."

And with every scratch of the quill, and every shocked second ticking by, George could feel deep scars getting carved into his heart; and this time, he was confident that this injury would take far longer to overcome.

These are the things George Weasley thinks about on a daily basis.

**

Ron paced nervously back and forth outside the kitchen. He muttered the same sentence over and over under his breath, trying to get the phrasing right, to make sure he didn't mess this up. Back at Hogwarts, he had always been all a dither in front of Fred and George: it's not that they were menacing, but they did have that sort of unapproachable air around them, and everyone in the school had loved them, hounded them…so Ron had never really talked to the twins during his five years with them at school.

Not _really _talked.

Exhaling, and raising his eyebrows in expectation, he made his way into the kitchen, to find George, once again pouring over a large leather book, and sat down opposite him.

"Hey, little brother." George said genially, not looking up from his work, but smiling regardless. "What's the problem?"

"What? Oh, no problem." Ron said, looking quizzical.

"I only ask because whenever you've come to talk to me, you're usually in the midst of some debacle or kafuffle."

"No…it's not that…I just wanted to see how you were doing." Ron said slowly, entwining his hands together and placing them behind his head, surveying his brother. George stopped writing, and placed his quill down, crossing his arms, and looking intently back.

"Really?"

"…Yes, I'm serious."

George smirked, and gave a small chuckle. "I'm doing alright Ron, thanks for asking. How are _you_ doing? How's Hermione and being an Auror?"

Ron exhaled again, shaking his head. "Hermione's great. Planning the wedding on top of all the cases she's immersed in right now. But she's really fantastic."

"You picked yourself a winner there, mate."

"I know…but being an Auror is a bit more than I thought it was going to be. I mean, ever since Voldemort snuffed it, everyone who'd supported him scarpered, and we're having a hell of a time tracking them down. It's just, not as much action as I thought I was going to be seeing, you know, but…" Ron shook his head, "but no, what's new with you? I don't want to really talk about me."

"Well," George began, stretching out like a cat and getting up to make some tea, "I've been hunched over these blasted things for the past month, quite like that little lady of yours. But I _think_, and I don't want to speak too quickly, I _think_ everything should be on schedule for April 1st." Having produced some boiling water from the tip of his wand, he brought over too strong cups of tea for him and Ron. "And I'm happy too. I think." He added, stirring his tea and nodding his head.

Ron nodded too, taking a sip of his tea, and glancing around, "Where's Theresa today?"

"Meeting with Angelina." George spoke, closing the leather bound book.

"Ooooh…" Ron hissed.

"Yes, I know. It could be potentially awkward. But I'd be honored if they fought over me." He grinned devilishly, and Ron laughed. There was a comfortable silence as the two men sipped their tea, and Ron drummed his fingers on the kitchen table.

"I'm sorry." He finally muttered, and George looked up, a bit confused. It sounded like Ron had been trying to say these two words for the entirety of their conversation, so the big moment had finally arrived.

"Thank you." George responded, eyeing his younger brother with a bit of confusion, and misunderstanding, "for what, exactly?"

"For…um- for you're er, loss." Ron's ears had now turned beat red, and he mumbled the sentence so softly that George had to lean forward to hear it. When he did, his eyes softened, his mouth gaped open slightly for only a minute, before he promptly shut it again. He found that there was a lump in his throat, so it made it quite difficult to speak. "Of Fred I…I mean."

George stared at Ron, unsure of what to say or really what to think.

"Er, thanks." He finally settled on, swallowing hard.

"It's just that I never really understood what you went through. I mean, he was my brother too and all, but…there was a connection bigger than blood between the two of you, and…" Ron paused, sighing, frustrated at himself for being seemingly unable to say exactly what he wanted. "Seeing how you've changed these past few months has made it obvious how bad it was for you before. And…and I think he'd be proud of you. Yeah." He pursed his lips together, chancing a glance up at George, who had a most unreadable expression on his face.

The wheels in George's mind were racing, and his heart went out to Ron: Ron who had never been good with words, who had clearly practiced what he was going to say ahead of time, just to make absolutely sure that he didn't bungle it. He felt like that was in part his fault: he and Fred always seemed to be pushing Ron down. They never celebrated with him when things needed to be celebrated. In that moment, he felt like a bad brother, like he would give all the money he had to just go back and time and treat him with the same amount of love he had treated Fred.

George hung his head finally, looking up to see tears in Ron's eyes, but he hastily brushed them away.

"That means a lot, Ron. Really." He muttered, getting up from the table and going around to shake his brother's hand, and ultimately pull him into a hug. "And I love you. You're my brother. And I'll make sure you're taken care of." There was so much seriousness in George's tone, so much encouragement in his eyes, that Ron felt the urge to fight back tears once again.

"I want to help in any way I can." He responded, grasping onto George's shoulder, "I want to work in yours and Fred's store."

George nodded, "Done. But I'm paying you under the table. None of this Gringott's taxes rubbish." They laughed. It felt good, Ron thought as he watched George make his way to the sink, and then back to the books, to see him laugh again. To see that same slightly scary, but mostly delightful look somewhere in the recesses of his smile.

"Cool. That's great." Ron mumbled, smirking at his older brother, who admittedly looked quite miserable surrounded by a pile of books. "This isn't a good look for you. Best leave it to Hermione."

George balled up a piece of parchment and threw it at him, laughing again. "Get out of my office, employee, before I fire you."

Ron sent his tea cup to the sink and, shoving his hands in his pockets, walked into the foyer, looking long on the family picture that was proudly displayed above the coat rack. Everything was so right back then. Everything just seemed to be OK.

He felt it could be that way again.

**

Next chapter to follow soon!


	13. Being Alive

My goodness, thank you for the reviews! It gives me so much inspiration, and I just want to write faster! Once again, this is a shorter chapter, but there's a good amount of juice in there, I promise. The next couple chapters are going to be crucial, so stick around!

Enjoy!

**

_Dear Theresa,_

_I'm really sorry that I couldn't make it to the mini-reunion. I miss you, and I want to see you! I felt awful for bailing, but I thought it could be potentially awkward for me to be around both you and George at the same time. Don't get me wrong, I love you both dearly, but I didn't come mainly because I felt it would make him really uncomfortable, under the circumstances. And honestly he has enough to deal with without me botching up the situation._

_But, I would love to get together with you! Sadly, I'm rather booked solid until after the holidays, but what about meeting up some time in March? This damn Quidditch team is killing me…I wish I could see you sooner. _

_Let me know when you're free by return owl. I wait anxiously for your reply!_

_All my love,_

_Ange_

Theresa folded the yellowing parchment back up, and pursed her lips. It had been almost three months since she had received this letter, and had been mulling over in her head what could happen when she saw Angelina today: either it would be an amazing catch-up between two close friends, or an awkward drawn out conversation between two women who had slept with the same man. She hoped and prayed for option A. She drummed her fingers anxiously on the hard surface of the table, satisfied with the sound it produced. She inhaled the woodsy smell of the Three Broomsticks, looking around lovingly at all the familiar sights of the place, from Madam Rosemerta scurrying back and forth between customers, to gaggles of Goblins plotting together in corners. It almost transferred her back in time, to a place where she was seated between two redheads, spilling butterbeer down her front from laughing so hard at some uproarious conversation in which they were most likely engaged. Or swapping stories with Katie, Ginny, or Hermione. It was like she could see the ghosts of their younger selves moving lethargically around the place, and, strangely enough, this made her smile. She looked having such a colorful past, full of so many good memories with the people she loved.

The door opened and she looked up, and smiled when she saw her beautiful friend, biting her lip and clutching her purse nervously, looking for Theresa. She found her quickly and rushed at her, arms outstretched. Theresa got a sudden burst of courage, owing to the fact that Angelina really did seem excited to see her. The girls embraced like long-lost sisters, and Theresa was surprised to find that tears had sprung to her eyes. She couldn't hide them before Angelina saw, who in turn began to cry.

"It's so unreal to see you." She giggled, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand and taking a seat across from Theresa. "I got a rush like we were back in school for a second there."

"I was just reminiscing about that actually, and all that's taken place since. It's so crazy how much we've grown up."

"Tell me about it." The other girl laughed, and getting the waiter's attention so as to order drinks, she fixed Theresa with a most curious gaze.

"So. What shall we talk about?"

"Well…how's Quidditch? Ginny mentioned trying out for the team you are currently on, how's that going?"

"It never fails to be fun," Angelina replied, receiving her drink and taking a sip, "but it does complicate my life a bit. It's really difficult to see my family and keep in touch with everybody, but it pays the bills and I'm loving it so…I suppose it's worth it. I'm a Chaser and reserve Keeper if they ever need one. Pays to be versatile." She gave Theresa a warm grin. "And you? What's the deal with your life?"

Theresa inhaled and raised an eyebrow, which elicited a laugh from Angelina. "Well, as you know, I was a complete tosser and left right after the battle…lived in the States for a while, working here and there, mostly in theater. Then, one day I was on my way home from a particularly bad run of a show, and George showed up and kidnapped me." She stirred her drink thoughtfully, smirking, "my cast probably thinks I'm dead. We were doing _Macbeth_ anyway. So I've been staying with the Weasleys, helping around the house, doing the shopping…those kinds of things."

Angelina shook her head, her long braids whipping back and forth, "So it's like a kind of culture shock in a way?"

"Yes, kind of. It's been since November now, so it's sunk in I think. They're all healing too, which is good." She saw Angelina bend her head in sadness. "And you knew that Harry and Ginny are engaged? And Ron and Hermione?"

They chatted amicably for another hour and a half or so, skirting delicately around the subject of the twins at all, until it became inevitable. There was only so much of their schooldays they could discuss without including them. And, Theresa could tell, there was a part of Angelina that needed to mention Fred. And when she did, although her eyes were sad, there was something about her demeanor that was wonderfully sunny, like he had been a beautiful shaft of light in her life. And Theresa always liked to see her friends happy.

"But about that night." Angelina added, after they had finished laughing about a particular incident involving Professor McGonagall's tins of biscuits, a rubber stamp, and two mischievous redheads. "I felt really awful for not showing up, it just didn't seem right, and…"

Theresa could feel the mood change. Even though a smile remained on Angelina's face, it seemed much more forced, like a grimace, and she felt a heavy weight in her chest, like she was fighting to breathe.

"OK." Ange continued, holding up her hands, and clasping them in front of her. "Did George ever tell you about-"

"You and him? Yes. And it's really OK, you had every right to-"

"No, you don't understand. I felt like an absolute bitch. Like the worst kind of person. I…" She swallowed heavy. "I used him. I thought that if I screwed up my senses enough, if I made myself believe it was Fred, I could find happiness with him, with George. And just see him as someone else." She found it difficult to look at Theresa now, and she became shorter of breath. "And I still beat myself up about it every day."

Theresa just listened.

"Eventually, I think he caught on, and it was right around the time when I started really realizing what I was doing to him, to myself, to Fred…and we broke it off. It was mutual and friendly but I can't get it out of my head, that I'm this awful person who's shallow and inconsiderate and…" The tears were streaming down her face now, and Theresa placed a comforting hand on her arm.

"Angelina, it's OK. It makes sense. You went through a terrible loss. We all did. But Fred was something special to you. It's _human_." She stressed. "What you did, what you're feeling, it's part of being _alive_. Sure," She shrugged, "maybe it was a mistake, but I think you'll agree that no one's perfect. Any experience you've had with me will show you that." She gave her friend's hand a reassuring squeeze, and Ange gave her a watery smile in return.

"And I also felt like a traitor." Angelina continued, her lip quivering as she hiccupped her words, "Because you and George were…_are_…what's right. You could just see it when he looked at you, that it was more than chemicals. It was this visceral, lovely, raw emotion that the two of you shared…" she gulped. "And when I slept with him, I felt like a homewrecker. Dirty, even. Because," she added, "it's will always be you and him. It's the only thing that makes sense."

The corner of Theresa's mouth twitched into a smile, before she glanced embarrassedly at the table, picking a knot that was built into it. "We're, um…George and I, that is…"

She leaned forward to whisper, "We're seeing each other again."

Angelina's depressed face disappeared at once and her expression could only be described as "Christmas Morning." She squealed and stood from her chair, rising to give her friend a bone crushing hug, and ordering some more drinks, this time on her. She wanted every detail of how it had happened, and she giggled along with Theresa when she mentioned the fight.

"It's just how we always worked," Theresa said matter-of-factly, sipping her Butterbeer, "Fight. Bed. Fight. Bed. So it made sense really. But we're being good and not really indulging in _too_ much pleasure of the flesh. He's so busy with the shop now anyway."

"How is that going?" Angelina pressed, "That must have been a difficult thing to bring up."

"It was. But I could always tell he wanted to do it, ever since I got back. It's something that still kind of connects Fred and him. And it's going well, this whole process of getting it back on its feet. The landlord is letting him run it for the same price he was paying when it was desolate, so that's good. I thought he'd jack the price on George. And he's coming up with some new ideas. Obviously won't let me see any of them. But I'll be helping out in the shop, and he's re-enlisted Verity, and Ron needs some money, so he'll be there pretty often too. I think it's going to be fantastic." She finished with a grin. "And we're all really proud of him."

"I should stop by and see him someday." Angelina mused, taking a drink from her own Butterbeer.

"Yes! Have you seen him since it ended?"

"Here and there…I used to have to get him away from the Leaky Cauldron and bring him back to the Burrow." She twisted her robes as though she was uncomfortable remembering it. "But those days are over, thankfully. The bad side is that it was the only times I ever saw him after whatever we had ended."

Theresa nodded, "that will change. The shop will be open soon, and you can stop by whenever you want. George told me to say so. He doesn't want you feeling weird around him."

Angelina laughed as she rose to leave, "Thanks T. I'll be sure to do that. I hate to leave so soon, but we have practice in an hour or so, and I want to you know, eat and take a nap and pretend I have a life outside Quidditch for a little while." Theresa understood, and smiling, gave the girl a warm parting hug.

"I'll walk out with you. I need to go into Dervish and Banges regardless, to get better staff robes. I don't think I have it in me to do magenta anymore."

**

George pulled a jacket on, and ran a hand through his rather unruly hair as he walked around the house. He never did this, he oftentimes found it too painful, but one way or another, he found himself drawn to the orchards that morning, April 1st. He was confident nobody else in the house was awake yet, it being only a little past six thirty. But he couldn't sleep, be it from nerves, inner turmoil, excitement, he did not know. He did know, however, that Fred wanted him to visit. So he obliged.

He neared the twisted tree, remembering the day he had told his parents to bury Fred at its base. It was the longest sentence he had said in two days, the most coherent he had been in longer. They didn't need to ask why. Over the course of a year, they had hid the majority of their family friends and Hogwarts friends in that tree. It had saved countless lives, done its job, and now it served as a final resting place for its founder.

George scuffed the ground nervously with his trainers, looking around him as a strange warm wind blew over the treetops and enveloped him. He closed his eyes and inhaled. Spring. He always loved April, because of its distinct smell specifically at the Burrow. There was still that hint of composted autumn leaves somewhere, because nobody really bothered to do yard work, and that clean scent of herbs and flowers sprouting from the ground. And the smell of cold, if it could be labeled a smell. It made for something wonderful. When he was growing up, when he had left for Hogwarts with Fred, he had always associated this smell with home.

Was he really twenty six?

He sat down in front of the cold granite stone that bore his beloved friend and brother's name. He hugged his knees close to him, like a child, enjoying the warm air that circulated around him.

"You know, I never really liked our birthday to begin with, Fred." He spoke low, rocking back and forth, determined to not look at the name again. "It always got in the way of April Fool's Day." He grinned in spite of himself, "which is an absolute sin, brother." He fell silent again, immersed in his own thoughts. He inhaled again, reveling in the feeling of living and breathing, of being in possession of a beating heart. He was lucky to be alive. How had he survived the past few years, come to terms with the fact that Fred was never coming back?

"I suppose we followed each other everywhere, right?" He said aloud, stretching out and leaning back onto the ground, looking up at the rapidly lightening sky. He propped his feet up on the gravestone, loving that Fred wouldn't care one bit. "And I'll get there eventually. But I have big plans that I want to put into effect. You understand." He paused, remembering the many times he had considered taking his own life. Would it not make sense, he had thought, to follow Fred out of the womb _and_ into the ground? "But I kept imagining her. And she's back, and she's going to be a major part of my big plans, Fred. She kept me alive. I love it, too. Being alive. I'm sure being dead has its perks and such, and it's definitely not as hard as living, but I get to consume food still, so…" a smirk crept its way onto his face. "I've got you beat there."

He found himself thinking about the course of the day. In a couple hours, he and Theresa would be on their way to the shop, make some last-minute adjustments, and then they'd be open for business. He remembered the regulars, the delightful children who's eyes would widen when he and Fred would demonstrate some wonderful spell or contraption they had fashioned. Or the little old men who were just looking for a laugh, for a speck of joy to fill their lonely lives once their wives had passed away. George loved talking to their older customers. Usually, he would be the one roaring with laughter as they recounted some tale of their childhood that involved a pulling of a prank. Hopefully, he would see some familiar faces. They would be the ones to pull him through the day. Theresa would be there, and that would give him enough impetus to run the store for goodness knows how long.

He hoped that his birthday would be filled with genuine laughter.

With a last look around the orchards, he removed his feet from the headstone, dusting it off and glancing at the picture that laid there. He stumbled to his feet, happy to realize that he did not have any urge whatsoever to consume alcohol or hole himself up in his room. He wanted to experience the day with his family, with Theresa, enjoy the customers that would undoubtedly flood his store, and maybe even wish himself, for the first time in a long time, a Happy Birthday.

**

Wait and see…!

Reviews are always welcome!


	14. The Fireworks King

Thanks for all the reviews! Boy, it's been a while since I've updated. Here's a nice long chapter to make up for it.

This story will begin to wind down soon, I think. I don't want to exhaust it. However, if you can think of any ideas for George and Theresa's future, let me know! I'm waiting with baited breath.

Enjoy!

**

It was a long day. They rarely had a moments rest, seeing as the shop had been swarming since 9:30 AM. Literally, George had turned the sign to "Open," and a group of fourteen people had instantly found their way inside. He was busy from the first minute, helping customers with products, demonstrating them, telling off children who attempted to pocket his goods. He saw all this work as a plus; it kept his mind off the date, and he did indeed find many things to laugh about. He would pass Theresa on the way to the stock room, and she would gently brush his arm and mutter some encouraging words before they both dashed off to do other things. George hadn't over-stressed himself to make tons of new products just yet, but regardless, all the tried and true Wizard Wheezes flew off the shelves. He was starting to wonder if he would have to start creating them as people ordered.

Over the course of the day they were visited by the entire Weasley family, Harry, Hermione, Lee, Katie, Alicia, Neville, Mr. Ollivander, Luna, Angelina (who gave Theresa a bright wink), and surprisingly, Professor McGonagall. She shook George's hand vigorously, complimenting him on his flair for business, and even giving him a rare smile. He had always suspected that he and Fred, despite their penchant for all things naughty, were some of her favorite students. Certainly, she had admitted to toasting them with her colleagues after their dramatic exit from school, leaving Umbridge in their wake. He shook his head in amusement as she hovered near the WonderWitch products before leaving the shop, then he flew off again, taking advanced orders for items that were currently out of stock.

He talked. He laughed. He made a _lot_ of money that day. As the last customer shut the door behind him with a gentle tinkle of a bell, George slumped into his office chair, pulled the grin off his face, and bid Theresa sit on his lap. He laid his head against her, exhausted. Now that he had time to think, to slow down, to count his earnings, memories were flying back, and she gently stroked his ginger hair as he wept silent tears. She didn't shush him when he told her about all the dreams that Fred had had for this store, but merely placed gentle kisses on his head, holding him close to her. And he loved her for that. For just letting him be, and understanding his sudden outpouring of emotion.

"_We shouldn't put it out. Do you really want to get killed?" George angrily kicked the door closed, gesturing to the window pane where they placed advertisements. _

"_It's not a matter of that. Personally, I think it's the stupidest pun I've ever come up with." Fred roared back, They rarely got in fights, and usually they were about the stupidest things. "It's about the public."_

"_Fuck the public! How many THOUSANDS of people can we make fun of? We don't have to choose-"_

"_We're not important enough! He wouldn't give a flying fuck what the HELL we put on our advertisements, they're busier off murdering Muggles and kicking around house elves!" Fred slumped his shoulders, striding into the office. "They don't care about business. And it's not about that, George. It's not about who we're going to piss off. It's about who we're going to entertain. Don't you think people are looking for a laugh? For people who are fearless? I thought that was always our punch line." Fred glared daggers at his twin._

_George grabbed his brother by the shoulders, but when he spoke, he realized how little anger he felt. It was more defeat._

"_You're always the hero." He released Fred, and turned around to walk out of the room, completely frustrated. _

"_I am not." Fred spoke, controlled. "Just different. You're too smart to say something that stupid." He came up to George somewhat awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck and pacing; he hated confrontation. It happened so infrequently. "I don't know what'd I'd do without you, brother." _

"You with me?" Her face loomed in front of hers, and he smiled when he saw her. His hand reached up to caress her cheek, and he brought her down to kiss her. It was a soft embrace, and when they broke apart, he stood to count their earnings for the day. His mind seemed to be spinning at a thousand miles an hour, but with no coherent thought process. What had brought him to this moment? He let gold galleons, silver sickles spill from his hands, not really putting his mind into it. He felt Theresa come up behind him, refraining from touching him.

"Do you need your space? I can go and help your mum with dinner and you can close up."

He wanted her nearby, to know that everything would be ok, to smell her sweet, feminine scent on the air, and most importantly to ground him if he did something stupid. And yet…

"Actually…would you mind? I think I do want to do this by myself." He turned to face her, hands encircling her hips, and softly let his head drop onto her shoulder. She held him close, and let her hands run through his hair, swiping his bangs from his face. How had he gotten through the day, she wondered, enjoying the feel of his heartbeat against hers as they just stood there, in the desolate store. He released her and placed a long slow kiss on her lips, a kiss that she dared not deepen, for fear of things getting out of hand. She broke from him, and laid her head against his chest, hugging him.

"I love you."

"I love you too." He gave her a final squeeze, and tilted her chin up to kiss her once more.

She suddenly became fearful. For what she could not say, but there was a very strange, very erratic glint in his eye. She surveyed him.

"George."

"I'm _not_ going to do anything stupid." She raised an eyebrow, and he laughed. "Seriously!"

But she still didn't believe him.

After she had disapparated, he realized how very alone he was in his dimly light store front. Sighing, and running a hand through his hair, he turned to face the steps that lead to his former flat. They were dusty and dark. Did he dare to mount them? He sniggered at himself. Here he was, George Weasley, who had laughed in the face of death, afraid to climb a set of stairs.

"_I don't understand. I thought I'm supposed to be sad about him." He whispered, pulling her down with him on his bed, lying on his side to face her. A terrible nightmare had just made him awake with a yell, and she was right by his side to comfort him. "My mind's all a jumble. I don't know when I'm angry anymore. When I'm depressed. It's like my brain doesn't know what to do with itself."_

"_You're brains not in charge of how you feel." She said, frowning. "That's why your emotions aren't as concrete as you want them to be." Suddenly, an adorable smile graced her face, and he felt his heart sore. "But that's the funny thing, George. Emotions are like…like Ron. They never show up on time."_

_He found himself roaring with laughter and hugged her close, kissing the top of her head. _

He bounded up the stairs, afraid that if he took them slowly, he would never make it. He arrived, panting, at the door at the top, and with a quick "_Alohomora_", the door swung open, and he felt his throat clench as he looked on the strange expanse of where he used to live. He instantly regretted not emptying it, because here in front of him was the sofa that Fred had pawned off a pretty Muggle at a car boot sale. Where he and his counterpart had sat and eaten, exchanging hilarious stories of the day. He, Fred, Theresa, Angelina, and Lee would sit around the coffee table and just laugh. There was so much happiness floating in this stale air, it seemed a shame that it had gone to waste. With a flick of his wand, the blinds shot open, revealing the setting sun that hung lazily over Diagon Alley. He walked to the window, inhaling, and regretting it, because his nostrils filled with dust, and he coughed hard for about a minute before he regained composure. He turned back to his living room, and walked to the kitchen, barren of cutlery. He could see the dinners they had had here, hear the sweet voices of his mother and father, of sister Ginny who had visited them countless times, feeling that he and Fred were the only ones she could talk to in the family. How they loved her! He smiled at the thought of how mature, adjusted, and beautiful she was, and he felt a small bubble of pride.

He walked out of the kitchen, down the narrow hallway that lead to his and Fred's rooms. To the left, he saw his old abode. He hadn't moved out the bed, desk, wardrobe…all his old things, Quidditch pennants, papers, books, fake wands, were jutting out of boxes strewn over the floor. He strolled over to one of the boxes and picked up a large cloth-bound book: _The Complete Workes of William Shakespeare, Volumne 1_. He replaced it gingerly, remembering how excited Theresa had been to find the Complete Works, in its entirety, for a mere two Galleons at a bookstore in Diagon that sold Muggle books.

He made his way across the hall, pausing to collect himself before pushing open the door to Fred's old room. Nothing had been touched in here since before the battle, nothing was boxed. Fred could have been in the room minutes ago. A singular shoe was jutting out from under the bed, papers were lying all over his old desk, clothing was everywhere. Moving pictures littered the front of his old wardrobe. Pictures of George and himself, of Theresa playing in a rain puddle, of Ron, Harry, and Hermione, mum and dad, the ghoul…everybody, really. George sniffed. This was so finite. He couldn't bring himself to touch anything, even though a part of him wanted to set the room ablaze, to get rid of any tangible evidence that Fred had lived here. But he couldn't tear his eyes away from those pictures, the shoe, the messy covers of the bed…

He was jarred from his daydreaming by the wardrobe shaking violently.

He jumped back with a yell, and found himself shivering. Nothing could have prepared him for that, yet as he got his wits about him, he came to the obvious conclusion that the source of the shaking was a Boggart.

The other conclusion he came to was that he must get rid of it.

He turned away from the wardrobe, shutting his eyes tightly. His stamina at the moment was not great enough to effectively dispel a Boggart. But if he ever wanted to avoid coming here again, he must do it now. At least that's what his brain told him. He shuddered when he thought of what was inevitably going to come bursting out that wardrobe door. He couldn't deal with seeing it again. The first time it had happened, it had been in front of his classmates, fifth year. Fred was watching, too. They had both been shaken for about a week afterwards. And no matter how much Lupin tried to convince him that it wasn't real, that it was just a reflection, he couldn't get rid of the awful, foreboding feeling that had slowly started to spread like tree roots in his chest and stomach.

Now, he turned back to the rocking wardrobe, his wand clenched tight in his hand. He was shaking again, and yet as he pointed his wand at the door, and the handle slowly started to turn, he became clear of mind. He remembered Harry telling Ron about his mother's Boggart, and he and Fred had reeled up the Extendable Ears, suddenly feeling sick.

The door creaked open. He thought he knew what was going to come at him through that door, but as the Boggart advanced on him, and he let out what could only be described as a whimper, he realized how very wrong he was.

**

He hadn't come home for dinner. It seemed like the entire family had been expecting this, and it made her a little angry, and a little scared. Ginny tried to explain to her that he always came home he just…would take a while. Sometimes not until the next morning. It was becoming something of a morbid tradition, according to Ginny, and although the rest of the family had continued to dig into their delicious-looking meal of chicken and ham pie, Theresa found her appetite to be non-existent. She excused herself from the dining room table and, amidst concerned looks from Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, ascended the dimly lit staircase.

She plopped herself down on her bed, her mind spinning at hundreds of miles per hour. They hadn't seen the look in George's eyes, back there in the store. She wondered for a brief moment if she should have told Mrs. Weasley, but instantly shook it away. She figured that he was always a little off on his birthday. And this had been a very significant birthday, to say the very least. In spite of her worry, she smiled. How proud she was of him, to climb triumphantly back on the horse, and turn his business back into a money spinner.

"You're proud of him, too, right?" She spoke aloud, her words meant for her dear friend Fred, "Happy Birthday dearest, please live it up. Your poor brother certainly isn't."

She wanted to fall asleep, yet once she had taken a shower, doused the lights, and curled up in the warm bed, she found it difficult, and tossed and turned for a good 45 minutes before rising from her covers and padding across the hall to George's room. She slowly opened the door. She wasn't sure what she was expecting to find there: maybe George himself. However, she was disappointed, and closed the door behind her as she walked towards his very vacant bed. She sunk down onto the soft mattress, and instantly felt more peaceful. Here was his scent, that had lulled her to sleep of late, and always acted as a trigger for her memory.

"_You're going to have to tell me if you want to stop," he groaned against her ear. Her lips crashed against his as she pulled him down on the bed, "Seriously, because I won't be able to stop in about…three seconds."_

"_When have you ever been serious?" She murmured against his neck as he began to work her knickers down her legs. _

"_I tried it once, but everybody laughed." He smirked, claiming her lips again, and unbuttoning his shirt. "Is this your first time?"_

_She bit her lip, suddenly nervous, and nodded. Her cheeks flushed a deep rose, and he felt his heart melt. _

"_I love you." He stroked her soft hair, admiring the way it fanned out around her face like a dark halo, "If you don't want-"_

"_This is what I want." She smiled up at him, reaching a hand down to unbuckle his pants, not faltering despite the large butterflies that had bloomed in her stomach. "I want _you_. And I love you too, so it make sense." She giggled, running her free hand through his hair, and sensing the deep want that was raging in her belly rise even more. _

"_I'll go slow." He whispered against the delicate flesh of her neck._

When she thought about it, she was young to lose her virginity. Sixteen? Was that the right age? It certainly felt right. Ever since then, she had stoutly disagreed with anyone who said you had to be a true adult to love fully, on an amorous scale, whereas before, she had scoffed at Romeo and Juliet, convinced that love at first sight was merely lust at first sight.

She liked being wrong about those sort of things.

Although, she thought to herself, George was definitely more handsome than Romeo ever was supposed to be.

In her thoughts, she was able to momentarily forget the worry she felt for him, and drifted into a semi-conscious slumber. She would hang in between her dreams for hours on end, yet it felt like mere seconds. Or was it the other way around? Everything was other-worldly when you slept, she thought or rather, when you hung in between dreams as she was destined to do until he walked through that door, safe.

It was around 11 o'clock when she saw flames.

They were brief. And she only caught a glimpse out of the corner of her eye. But they had come from the forest out past the orchards. And she knew. She knew without a doubt that it was George, and not children from the village, keen to play a prank on the unsuspecting neighbors. But she wanted to make sure of what she saw. She shot up from her prone position, and tried to focus her eyes in the dark. She squinted her eyes, poised. Waiting for another tongue of flame to inevitably shoot into the air. She stayed unnaturally still, not daring to breath, lest she miss the sight. But nothing came. She found herself gasping in great gulps of air, hyperventilating. She was barely aware of pulling on her boots that lay beside the bed, of throwing her hair up in a haphazard bun.

She needed to know what was in that forest.

She flung open the door, and clambered down the stairs, not stopping to make her steps quiet. The only think she worried about was getting outside as soon as possible. And when she did, she didn't stop to curse at how cold it was outside. Gooseflesh sprung up on her arms and legs, and she ignored the rather heavy rain that was clouding her vision; she bolted to the backyard, passing through the paddock, and heading towards the orchards, with none but her instinct to guide her.

"George!" She shouted to the night and when she stopped to listen for his reply, only heard the sounds of rain hitting spring leaves on the trees. She swore in frustration, and began to run again, deeper into the orchards than she had ever gone, past the twisted tree, past Fred's grave, into the dark brambles that gave way to a thick forest. She vaguely felt wet branches hitting against her arms and legs, and didn't even flinch as one snapped against her cheek. She was panting hard.

She saw a bright green something shoot hundreds…no, thousands of feet into the air. It had come from a point roughly two hundred yards from where she stood. She could see it through the trees, and she slowed her pace to listen. In the distance, an owl hooted in surprise as something else bright green shot off into the sky. Whatever it was whirred like a spinning top before exploding into thousands of colors. She brushed her wet hair away from her face, and was about to call his name again when the air exploded with sound and sight around her. She yelled in panic, and the blinding flash nearly knocked her off her feet. Regaining her composure, she scrambled behind a tree as she advanced on the area, knowing that he was in there somewhere.

And that's when she saw him. He stood, his back to her, amidst a multitude of bright lights, forcing the colorful wonders into the sky.

Fireworks.

He was urging them on like a skilled conductor in front of a 200-piece orchestra. Veritable power surged from him, and as she drew nearer, walking through the array of sound and light, she could feel it like a palpable presence. She stood and watched, jumping occasionally from the almighty blasts that emitted from the fireworks. He was shooting off hundreds of them: silver stars spiraled up to the heavens, bright orange umbrella-shaped sparklers covered the night sky. It was artistry.

And it was his homage to Fred. This much she knew.

She approached him from the side, glimpsing his face, contorted with a mixture of fury and grief, smeared with gunpowder and sweat. With a sweep of his wand hand, he shot forty more of the explosives into the sky, yelling in anger as he did so. She jumped back in slight fear, having still gone unnoticed by him. Fifty more explosives shot into the air…seventy…

And then they were gone. All of them. The clearing lay smoldering and blackened, as the fireworks multiplied and continued to burn with vivid color above their heads. He turned to her, chest heaving as he breathed heavily, and she noticed tear tracks cutting through the gunpowder.

His anger dampened. He fell to his knees, and she rushed to fall with him. It was raining harder now, but the magical explosives refused to be extinguished, and simply burned brighter. She hugged him fiercely, her flimsy nightgown sticking to her, realizing, as she looked in his eyes, that a new fire had been lit behind them. A fire she liked.

Catharsis.

He grabbed her face in his hands, pushing her soaking hair from her eyes, and kissed her hard. She found herself unable to think of anything that could compare to this moment. He was back.

"I thought I lost you." He breathed against her, and she only kissed him deeper, clinging to him, loving him, crying with him.

The knelt together in the clearing, the whirs and bangs echoing for miles around, and silently, she raised a prayer of thanks to Fred. For freeing George.

**


	15. Happiness

Alright, it's most definitely not over yet, I have decided. A good five chapters more after this one will suffice, I believe. I just can't stop writing at this point.

Format's a little different in the beginning, but you'll get used to it. Enjoy!

**

"Theresa."

"Hmph."

"Theresa."

"Hmph…what?"

"T-BONE."

"Don't call me that, you- Oh my God."

"Close."

"Holy shit."

"Such vulgarities. My virgin ears cannot stand it."

"Am I awake right now?"

"I'd like to imagine that you're talking in your sleep. That would be pretty funny. Especially with the amount of expletives I see in the future."

"Shut it, Fred. What's up? Don't you have better things to do?"

"Not really. There all a bunch of stiffs up here. Hahahahaha…"

"That was awful. Lost your touch, have you?"

"Ah, you could only wish of such a thing. Unfortunately, I'm the same, little ole' me. Pull up a bit of grass."

"I suppose. Tell me for serious this time. Am I awake? Am I dreaming? Am I dead?"

"Whoa, too many questions."

"Answer them one by one, then."

"No."

"OK."

"A little."

"How can you dream 'a little'?"

"I've very manipulative, and have fixed it so. And as for whether you're dead or not, definitely no."

"Good. Things are just starting to get normal again. You really did a job down here."

"Couldn't help it, love."

"…"

"…"

"So…why the impromptu visit?"

"I wanted a chat. And seeing as I only get to have a proper chat with one non-dead person a year, I figure I'd pick you."

"They monitor those things?"

"Not really. But you could really drive a person crazy, visiting them every day. I don't think George would be able to handle it."

"No. Probably not. Have you ever visited him?"

"Of course. He doesn't usually talk back, though."

"Why?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, little sister."

"Maybe it's….maybe it's because it's too real? I mean, I feel like I could reach out and touch you right now."

"You can. Have a go. And I promise not to tell George if you violate me."

"I think I'll settle for your shoulder…ah, you're mum's sweater."

"Always. They're lovely and warm."

"I miss you a lot, Freddie."

"I miss you too, beautiful….C'mon, please don't cry. You know I'm not good with consolation. Remember the time I turned Ange's braids into chain link? That was abysmal. Oh g_ood_, there's a smile!"

"Ah, I can't help but smile around you. Have you been keeping an eye on him?"

"I try to remind him, in some way, daily, not to off himself. The world would be an awful place without him. You know that better than anyone."

"Yes. Do you still hate me?"

"Hate you? _Hate _you? Now that's a strong word. And no, not in the slightest bit. Why would I ever?"

"Because I was a tosser."

"We've had this conversation before you know. Back in November? Even though you just thought you were talking to a bit of stone, I was all ears. Unlike my dearest brother."

"_That_ was a good one."

"Thanks."

"So…no hard feelings?"

"Nah. I forgave you the second he did. Which didn't take too long, you know. Shorter than Percy anyway, because he's not as pretty. George understood. He would have up and left if he could've."

"You're proud of him, aren't you?"

"Very. He always was my better half. Ah, there you go again with the tears. C'mere. We'll see each other again soon enough. And there'll be a fab party when that happens."

"Does it hurt?"

"I have a feeling if you're hit by the Killing Curse it doesn't, but I had a massive headache, personally. Then again, I was killed by a wall."

"…Fred?"

"Yes, love?"

"Do you know when…I mean, when he's-"

"Oh, no. We're not privy to that sort of information around here. But he has big plans in mind, you know. And I'm pretty sure they involve you. At least from what he's told me. I've told you before I love it when you smile, right?"

"No."

"Well, I do. You have…what do they call it in theater?"

"Presence."

"Yes. Presence."

"Thanks, Fred."

"You're welcome Theresa."

"Do you have to dash?"

"Nope. I can stay here as long as you permit me to."

"Then can we just sit? I miss just sitting with you."

"Anything you want, love. Anything at all."

"…Fred?"

"Yes?"

"He's going to ask me to marry him, isn't he?"

"Yes. Are you happy?"

"Indescribably."

"Do you love him?"

"More than anything in this great big silly world."

"That's all we ever need, isn't it? Love?"

"Yes indeed, Fred. Yes indeed."

Her eyes blinked once. Twice. She could still smell him. He could have been in here a second ago. And although he wasn't there anymore, she found herself elated, rather than sad. She looked to her right. There was George, peacefully asleep, his cheeks still flushed from their love-making. Her heart melted. Here was her brave man, her rock. She was so full of _love_ for him, she felt herself nearly dancing in her spot. Her body was shaking.

She shook his shoulder vigorously.

"George."

"Hmph."

"George."

"Theresa…what is it?" he stirred, rubbing his eyes, and looking at the clock that now flashed 5:30 AM. "Another go? Goodness darling, there is no stopping you." He cracked a sleepy smirk, and stroked her soft arm gently. Her skin was smoother than a baby's.

"I just had a visit with your brother."

He knew whom she was talking about, and his smirk softened, although the same light expression lingered on his face. "What did he say?"

"He said you were going to ask me something."

"_Did _he now?" He reached out to grasp her by the hips, leaving tiny kisses on the bridge of her nose, the tops of her cheeks…"Yes, I had a little chat with him about that. Did he tell you what?"

"No." She lied, and she could almost see Fred's smirk of satisfaction. He had always loved withholding vital information. He found it hilarious.

"You're bluffing."

"I am not. I just have a terrific poker face."

He laughed, placed a long kiss on her lips, and cupped her chin in his hand.

"Are you going to ask me?"

"Do you want me to? I mean, you know already, but-"

"I GUESSED, OK?!" She was laughing now, too, and she sunk her forehead into his shoulder, enjoying the feel of his strong arms encircling her, of his chest heaving with laughter at her frustration. "It was BY ACCIDENT." She huffed, looking up at him with a pained look, which bubbled into giggles when she saw his look of pure goofiness.

"You're the limit." He said, resting his chin on the top of her head, holding her close. Her body was so warm, so relaxed. "Well, now's as good a time as any. I know you hate all that fancy stuff, so…" He sat up in bed, and opened the drawer of his bedside table.

She looked away, and found herself a little short of breath. Her hands covered her mouth as she too sat up, watching him intently as he revealed the tiny box in his hands. She had been dreaming of this for years, for as long as she could remember, as a little girl, playing with her dolls all alone. It seemed like such a simple act back then. Like there was no commitment involved, just a big shiny ring, and a handsome prince. Maybe it was because of all they'd been through, but suddenly a proposal became so powerful. This was more than ceremony, more than getting down on one knee.

This was real.

"Hey, T." He whispered, sitting on his knees opposite her, and breathing gently in her ear. "Marry me this time?"

She was aware of the most minute detail, and years later, she would say that this moment sat permanently in her brain. His breathing became fast as he waited for her answer, which she didn't seem able to squeak out. Until, finally…

"Yes."

She opened the box he placed in her hands with shaking fingers, and he took out the most delicate, the most beautiful ring of silver and diamond that she had ever seen.

"Look inside."

She had to squint her eyes to read the inscription, but when she finally did, more tears spring to her eyes, and she read aloud:

"Doubt that the stars are fire, doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar. But never doubt thy love." She inhaled a shaking, joyous breath. "Shakespeare."

He nodded, taking the ring from her, and slipping it on her finger. There were no words that she could seem to utter in that moment, for so great was her happiness that all she could seem to do was encircle his neck with her arms, and embrace him passionately. His hands moved to her waist, her back, as they fell down amongst his tangled bed clothes. She couldn't stop kissing him: again, and again, some soft kisses, some deep and longing, gentle butterfly kisses on his cheeks, and he paid her back in kind. The band around her finger felt so metallic, so warm against her skin.

"How did you fit all that text on there?" She whispered in his ear, a gentle, happy lilt in her voice.

"I'm magic, you know." He whispered back, sliding on top of her, and smiling against her lips.

"George?"

"Yes, Theresa?"

"I'm so happy."

"I am too."

"And I love you."

"I love you, too."

"Is this too sappy?" She wrinkled her nose, and he let out a chuckle, kissing down her neck, and spreading her legs simultaneously.

"Do you think it is? Because we can change that." He growled against her ear, and she moaned just a bit too loudly when he entered her swiftly.

"Yeah, let's change that." She gasped in pleasure, indulging in the feel of him, the happiness she felt, and the wonder that they were.

**

Who called it? I know I did!

Short, but sweet. Keep them reviews a-comin'!


	16. Bug

Hello folks, it's been a while since my last update, but I'm continuing this story, never fear! I will ask you to disregard the rather obvious discrepancy of time that is throughout this chapter…ages are a little wonky, and it's not true to actual Harry Potter chronology. But bear with me, this needs to happen when it does.

And without further ado, here 'tis. Pease be kind to me!

**

"_What do you think's going to happen?"_

_Theresa and George were walking alongside Harry and Ginny, who were hand in hand. Ginny had tear tracks down her face, and Harry seemed to be resigned to feel nothing. The shock of Dumbledore's death was still almost too great for him to comprehend. It was a strangely chilling afternoon, the day before his funeral. Many of the students in the school had taken to shutting themselves up in their dormitory, or strolling the grounds. Attendees of the funeral had arrived a day early to mourn with their family members who attended Hogwarts._

_Was this real?_

"_We need each other more than ever." Ginny whispered, grasping hold of Theresa's hand, and giving her a small smile. "And we can't disband Dumbledore's Army. We'll keep it going. In case there's…" she couldn't speak anymore, and let go of Theresa's hand, allowing silent tears to drip down her face once more. George slid a comforting arm around Theresa, and wiped away his own tears with the back of his hand. _

"_Everything's changing." He murmured, and Harry nodded in silent agreement, "We're the young ones now." _

"_Do you think he'd be proud of us?" Theresa asked, sinking her head into George's shoulder as they walked, and warming her hands. Why was it so cold?_

"_Yes." Harry answered softly, the first word he had uttered since their arrival two hours ago. "He was always proud of us." _

_George shot a sideward glance at the black-haired boy. Why was he forced to carry this burden all by himself? It was a Weasley instinct to want to help, to aid…and when Harry kept refusing the comfort of almost all of them, it made for a feeling of emptiness in George. He sighed, looking over across the expansive lake, where the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon. _

"_We'll going to be alright," he said, mostly to assure himself of the fact, "it's just going to take some time"._

"Very similar, isn't it?" Theresa smiled, warming her hands and linking her arm with George's as they walked alongside Harry and Ginny. She kicked up the blanket of autumn leaves as she did so, and pulled her jacket closer to her.

"Only we're loads happier now. And the fate of the world doesn't rest on my shoulders." Harry chuckled, once again hand in hand with Ginny, who was walking very gingerly.

"How's the little one?" Theresa said, glancing at Ginny's swollen stomach. "What is it, six months now?"

"Just about." The younger witch sighed, placing a hand on her middle, and grinning. "We're excited to meet him."

"And I'm excited to be an uncle." George said, also kicking up leaves.

"You'll be the favorite, I'm sure. And you're already an uncle, George. Don't forget about Bill's children."

"Yeah, but…you'll have cooler kids." Theresa punched his arm lovingly, and his eyes crinkled as he bent to kiss her quickly.

Ginny laughed, pretending to be exasperated with her brother.

"That is a definite." Harry agreed, "because ours won't be half French."

"Ooh, low blow." Theresa said, narrowing her eyes and kicking leaves at Harry, who raised an eyebrow and laughed at her.

"I jest, I jest." He assured her.

Ginny shook her head "When are _you_ two going to start reproducing, anyway? Not that I want to think about that, but…"

"Yes, the idea of him pro-creating is a bit daunting," Theresa agreed, glancing up at her husband, who gave her an incredulous look, but ultimately smirked at her. "I don't know. When do you want to have kids, George?"

"Sometime in the near future, I suppose…but I want some more alone time with you, dearest."

"I guess that's ideal." Theresa agreed, and Ginny nodded. "It's only been two years, after all."

Two years. Theresa pondered this thought for a moment, as the two couples lapsed into comfortable silence. Had it really been that long? It felt like only yesterday that George was kneeling in front of her in his bed, slipping the band around her finger…yet as she grew older, time seemed to be speeding up, and moments that seemed so fresh in her memory were, when she stopped to consider them, already passing by. She wanted to grab hold to them, cherish them. And she did. But the fact remained that those moments, being _in_ those moments was like trying to cup water in your hands. They trickled away.

So much had happened, she had to pinch herself occasionally to make sure it wasn't all a dream. After their wedding, she and George had moved back to the flat above the shop and were still in the process of turning it into a proper home. Business was booming for him, and each passing day brought more interesting customers. He always had at least a handful of stories from his day, when he finally trudged up the staircase to spend a quiet evening with his wife, or as he liked to call her, his "bride".

"_What do you want to do?"_

"_You mean like, as far as employment is concerned?" _

_They lay side by side on the bed, him still wearing his staff robes, and _The Merry Wives of Windsor _draped on her stomach, having only just looked up from reading to answer his question._

"_Sure. The shop brings in enough money that you could really just do nothing if you wanted." He rolled over on his stomach, grabbing a pillow, and turning to face her, "but I know you."_

"_I've been thinking." She said, looking back at him and lazily moving her hand up to run her fingers through his hair. "And I really only want to do one thing."_

"_Hmmm…let me guess…"_

_She nodded and smiled at him, "but the only problem is you silly wizards don't really do that. I was going to see if I could start like, the first ever Shakespearian Wizarding Acting Troupe, but that would be a little too much too fast." _

"_So, I was thinking of maybe sometime venturing out to Piccadilly or Oxford to do some auditioning. You know, for Muggle productions." She looked up at him, and was happy to see that he was nodding his head in agreement._

"_I think," he said, pulling her closer to him, and tossing away her book, "that you have to do what makes you happy. So do it."_

_She gave a great, mirth-filled giggle, and kissed him firmly on the lips, encircling her arms around his neck, suddenly pinning him to the bed, and straddling him with her legs. _

"_So that would be you, right?" she smirked sexily, bending down to kiss him again. She could feel him growing hard against her inner thigh._

"_Why yes, Mrs. Weasley. I suppose it would be." _

Had she really sat at the old scrubbed table at the Burrow, making out wedding invitations with her soon-to-be mother and sister-in-law? There was no way that it had been two years ago. A simple silver ring now accompanied her shimmering one. But other than that, her appearance really hadn't changed that much. George was developing bags under his eyes, but quite strangely, it almost suited him. They would laugh about it when he would come home, exhausted but happy.

And, Theresa was excited to see, the creases at the corners of his eyes were deepening. In truth, they'd been almost ever present since two years previous.

Every time she looked into his bright eyes, free from torment or ghosts, she wanted, so badly, to have children with him. She would watch in secret, as he would deal with his younger customers at the shop, stooping down to their level to converse with them like adults, making them roll on the floor with laughter, their tiny hands bulging with products. He would continue smiling long after they were gone. She could see that he wanted a family of his own in the faraway glance that would settle into the nuances of his face as he would watch them running out of the store with their parents, hand in hand with their young siblings.

But, they had been saying since they were married, they had a lot of catching up to do before bringing a little one into the world.

He would be the best father. And now that they were about to pass the two-year marriage mark, she had a feeling that they would start seriously considering it. No matter what George said to his sister.

"Were we really teenagers ten years ago?" George said aloud, as they came upon the orchards.

"Yes sir. Don't you feel so old?" Ginny said, smiling sadly in the direction of Fred's grave, which had a few stray leaves adorning its top.

"Quite the contrary, actually. I feel very new." He replied, jogging over to dust the leaves from the top of the headstone. He paused for only a moment to touch the granite softly, looking at the engraving, before returning to his three walking companions, his wife offering her hand to him.

"You've got the right idea, mate." Harry said, smirking at George, as he ran a hand through his already graying hair.

"Hey, did I ever tell you that story about when Theresa accidentally snogged Fred thinking it was me?" He said suddenly, remembering the incident with a grin. Theresa elbowed him hard in the chest, her cheeks going pink.

"George Weasley, don't you _dare_…"

" See, she had too much Firewhiskey…"

"You better shut your trap, or I swear to God-"

"_I _want to hear this story!" Ginny giggled, and only laughed harder when her friend turned her gaze on her, shooting daggers with her glare.

"Oh, it's great! C'mon T, it's funny now."

She huffed and crossed her arms. "FINE."

"OK, so we were having dinner one night, and she must have looked down for a second, during which time, _I_ had gotten up to use to W.C." His grin was widening as Theresa rolled her eyes at him. "And she must have thought it was Fred, because, as he put it, she suddenly started making eyes at him."

Harry and Ginny were both laughing now, and she couldn't help but turn up the corners of her mouth.

"And she claims she was too drunk to see the color of Fred's shirt which was…COMPLETELY different from mine. Unless she had thought Fred was me for the entire evening, there was no way she could have messed that up."

"The silly git hadn't gotten any action in a week, so of course he wasn't going to stop her when she basically tackled him to the floor." George was laughing so hard now that tears were in the corner of his eyes, "And of course, when I came out of the bathroom, she had her hand down his-"

"OK, THAT'S ENOUGH!" Theresa nearly shrieked, and several birds took flight from a nearby tree. The others were having difficulty standing up from laughing so hard, and Theresa found it very difficult to maintain a stony expression and laugh at the same time. "I was at a disadvantage! It was _mainly_ his fault!!"

George raised an eyebrow and smirked at her, "OK, if that's what you're going to stand by…."

"Yes it is. And if you continue to berate me, I'll start telling everyone how much better he was at kissing than you…among other things-"

And Harry and Ginny were left in the dust as he took off chasing after her, her extremely distinctive giggles echoing about the orchard, and drifting into the front yard of the Burrow as she evaded her very jealous husband.

**

"I think the only way you're going to get that scene is if you really practice at home. "Out out damned spot" is not for the faint of heart."

"I know."

She was exhausted. She sat in a circle with her cast mates, her hair tied back in a thick braid, and she was going through her script line by line, breaking down the beats. Her face was grey and ashen, and the last place she wanted to be right now was rehearsal.

"Are you feeling alright?" The director pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and stared at her intently. I would prefer it if you didn't miss rehearsal, but if you're energy is down, then it's rather-"

"I'm fine…it's just been a rough couple of weeks. I think I have a bug that's going around in my husband's family- I'm really alright." She added hastily when she saw the look on his face. "Maybe if I could just leave an hour early or so, that might be beneficial."

Every bone in her body ached, and a consistent feeling of nausea swept over her at least twenty times a day. She had been thinking of what it could be for a long time now, debating going to Mungo's to get it confirmed…but she was dreading her reaction if it was what she thought.

"I don't know. I think I would prefer you to leave now. The last thing we need is a cast-wide bug. Especially when we're already working on the Scottish play."

She decided against putting up a fight, and for the first time, chose the easy route and gathered her things to leave. Muttering a hasty goodbye to the rest of the cast, she pulled on her coat, donned her scarf, and pushed her way out the lobby doors. She walked down the frigid street, which was covered in a dusting of snow. Now that she was out of the rather stuffy theater, she found herself happy to have been excused early, no matter how much it set her back in her preparation for the role, and she scuffled her feet in the snow as she made her way to the old abandoned bus stop that she usually chose to apparate at, so it didn't look as suspicious as it could.

She checked her watch, which flashed seven thirty. George would be surprised to see her home so early, but he would be pulling extra hours at the shop, seeing as it was the Christmas season. She might pull him away from his many customers to fix him a quick dinner so he didn't come home on an empty stomach for the fourth night in a row. She pushed the hair that fell out of her braid away from her eyes as she glanced back and forth, making sure no one was watching her, then turned on the spot. The suffocating feeling felt more constricting than usual, and when she found herself in the center of Diagon Alley, she had to struggle with herself not to be sick on the spot, and steadied herself. From her place in the crowded street, she could see people spilling out of the store, and as she neared it, she could hear the jovial laughter of her husband above the din that was coming from inside.

That's when it hit her like a ton of bricks: the most overwhelming nausea she had ever felt, and ducking to the nearest litter bin, was promptly sick inside it. Some passersby gave her an appraising look, most likely thinking she was drunk. She hardly cared, for right now, she was wiping residue from the corners of her mouth, and grimacing at the awful taste of bile and the pounding headache she was currently experiencing. It didn't take her very long to decide what she had to do.

"Yup." She muttered to herself, and turning on her heal, headed in the direction of the Leaky Cauldron. Seconds later, she was inside the warm pub, and was shouting to the bartender.

"Tom, can I use your fireplace to floo?"

"Surely, Theresa. Everything alright at home? Why can't you use your fireplace at home?"

"Long story." She lied, and taking some powder from the drawstring pouch that lay on top of the mantle, she threw it into the fire, and stepped inside it, yelling "St. Mungo's!". George would have to wait a bit for dinner.

She whirled fast, tucking her arms in to her body, and braced herself as she landed hard on her feet in the large fireplace in the lobby of St. Mungo's. Brushing residue ash off the shoulders of her coat, she made her way to the desk.

"I'd like to speak to a healer, if it's possible."

The woman at the desk, bespectacled and with a mass of curly white hair, looked at the list of the healers on call. "What seems to be the problem tonight, miss?"

"Well, erm…I've been feeling peaky for a bit now, about two weeks. And I just got sick in Diagon Alley. Always feel woozy. I think it might be a bug." She said nervously, glancing down at her feet, hoping to steady herself again from the new wave of dizziness that had just washed over her. "But then again, I could just be denying what I think it really is."

The nurse looked up from her paperwork, and gave Theresa a knowing look. "I'll take you're name, miss. And Healer Macintosh is available this evening. If you could wait over there," she gestured to the comfortable-looking waiting room, "I'll see if she's with a patient and we'll get you examined."

Theresa nodded her thanks, and made her way over to a big squashy purple chair. She felt that she could just curl up and fall asleep on the spot. Her entire body felt fatigued and achy, like her bones were working too hard to hold her up. Her mind was spinning out of control, with lines she had to memorize, walls she needed to paint at home and baby names that kept popping in and out of her subconscious. She shook her head to rid herself of all these thoughts: what if she wasn't pregnant? She had kept asking herself what if she _was_, she hadn't stopped to consider it the other way around. Was she ready if she was? Were _they_? Then again, she reasoned with herself, no matter how prepared anybody thought they were for a child, they never were.

She heard someone call her name, and slightly dazed, she found her way to her feet and followed the healer into an examination room. She was a kind-looking woman of about seventy, short and plump, who waddled a little when she walked.

"Hello dear." She said, sitting down on the low stool, and beckoning Theresa to sit opposite her. "I hear you've been feeling queasy?"

"Yes." Theresa started, her eyes shifting as she took off her coat. "All the time. I've been thinking about it, and I figure I might be-…I might be pregnant."

The witch smiled warmly at her. "Alright. Have you and your husband been trying for a baby?"

"No, not specifically. We both want children, but I guess we weren't really expecting it now. He's working full time, and I'm busy during nights. Not an ideal environment for a child." She said, shrugging her shoulders. "But I want to make sure now, so that if it is the case, I can make proper adjustments in my life so I have time for a baby."

The healer made a note on the pad in front of her, "And your husband's name?"

"George Weasley."

"Ah, yes of course." The woman said, scribbling down his name. "I delivered him and his brother. Years and years ago. I just about gave away my age, haven't I?" She laughed, and Theresa couldn't help but indulge as well. "And have you been feeling any pains?"

"Just nausea. Nothing sharp."

"Alright…can I have you lie back for me?"

**

He watched her admiringly from the doorframe, her still form in a deep sleep, the steady rhythm of her breathing evident with the rise and fall of her chest. He rubbed his eyes as he entered the room, hearing echoes of the customers that he had just said goodnight to in his head, feeling his stomach rumbling. But all of his discomforts, his headache, his lack of food, was rectified by the beautiful angel lying in his bed, her porcelain skin gleaming in the bright moonlight. He climbed toward her prone figure, using his shoulder to prop him up as he gently stroked her sweet-smelling hair. This woman had saved him, and he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to express his gratitude fully. He kissed her brow, lingering there, inhaling her scent of lavender, and as he pulled back, he saw her eyes flutter open.

"Hi." She whispered.

"Hi." He whispered back, letting a finger trace her strong cheekbone and jaw. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"Best way to wake up." She said, brushing his hair out of his eyes, reveling in their vivid green color. "I was going to make you dinner."

"It's alright. I wouldn't have had time. I'm so glad I'm home. We get to sleep in tomorrow." He said, smirking, bending to kiss her plump lips. "So we can make breakfast."

"You can read the paper."

"You can work in the garden."

"You can mow the lawn."

He chuckled, "I love pretending we're elderly. It makes me live in the moment more, I think."

He stood from her, pulled off his staff robes, and tossed them in the hamper. He pulled on a pair of flannel pajama pants and a t-shirt, and climbed into bed next to Theresa. She turned on her side to talk to him, and he noticed a hitch in her breath as she began.

"George."

"Theresa."

"So, hypothetically, let's say that something unexpected happened, mostly to me, and I told you about it. How do you think you would react?"

He raised a quizzical eyebrow. "You're being a little vague. What do you mean exactly?"

She bit her lip, "so, you wouldn't get angry if I told you that-" She stopped, finding herself strangely nervous, and dropped her gaze from his for a moment, collecting herself. She took a deep breath, finding the courage somehow to spill it out.

"I'm pregnant, George."

She watched his expression, felt his body language. His eyes got as wide as dinner plates, and immediately, he scooted closer to her, placing a hand on her stomach.

"WAIT." He said, a little louder than he intended: "so, you have a child inside you right now? You're not leading me on? And I put it there? And…and-"

She nodded vigorously, giggling at his choice of words, and his apparent excitement. "I'm as pregnant as pregnant can be, babe."

He didn't seem able to speak. He kept trying to start sentences, but his mind was moving too fast for him to be able to finish them. Finally, he settled on:

"That's so, that's so…" He kissed her deeply on the lips, finding it impossible to hold her as tight as he wanted to. He broke apart from her, "I'm going to be a father?" He said, with the most adorable hint of wonder in his voice.

"Yes."

Why did he find that his eyes were suddenly brimming with tears? Already, in the thirty seconds it had been since he had been told the news, he found that he loved this child, this creation that they had made, more than he could have ever imagined. He kissed her again, her delicate arms encircling his waist, pulling him on top of her. His big plans that he had secretly confided to Fred a mere few years ago were coming true faster than he had thought.

And he liked it.

"Don't scare the baby." She whispered in his ear as he pulled down his pajama pants, his warm breath against her neck sending shivers down her spine. He was pulling up her nighty, delighting in how soft her thighs were under his large hands, in how warm her body was.

"I'll try not to but…it's a bit difficult, you know." He smirked against her skin, and she whacked him playfully. He pushed himself up on his knees to take off his shirt, and her want for him in that moment surged anew inside her. She reached out her hands for him, and he obliged, coming on top of her on all fours, positioning himself to enter her, which he did slowly, torturously, as she reveled in the length of him.

"This is unfair." She muttered, yet gasped as he pushed into her, and thought no more.

**

I'm beginning to realize that a lot of my chapters end in sex. That's not necessarily bad, though, isn't it? Good for them!

Read and review. A new chapter will follow a lot swifter than previous, I promise.


	17. Beauty in the Breakdown

I apologize for the long hiatus. My life just got way busier. Well, nevertheless, here is the newest chapter!

**

_They were dancing, and he leaned in to whisper in her ear…_

"_Please wake up."_

She shot up like a bullet released from a gun, and looked wildly around. Well, as wildly as she could muster. Overwhelming exhaustion took over her body the second she had roused herself. She could feel her hair matted around her face, her breath was stale in her mouth. And she was in a hospital bed.

Her sudden awakening had startled him so that it took quite a while to steady himself again. He had been caressing the back of her hand, breathing in her ear, pleading with her to please not be in this state for much longer, for he would fear the worst.

There was a stabbing pain in her pelvic region, and she felt the unmistakable after-effects of post-surgical spell work. She tried hard to orient herself.

"The twins." She whispered as she looked down at her stomach, which was much smaller. Suddenly, panic filled her, and her head whipped around frantically as she looked for cradles, that were surely holding her two new sons…her eyes met his, and he climbed into the bed with her. His eyes were damp with tears, and they held that same, sad expression that she had grown to understand and had come to terms with nearly four years ago.

"Theresa."

"What happened?" She dared to reply. She needed to know. He shook his head, and his hunched shoulders told the story of a man who had seen far too much tragedy in his short life.

"There was a problem."

"_George…"_

"_Theresa?"_

"_Something's wrong."_

"…_what do you mean, something's wrong? With the babies? It's only…it's only seven months."_

_She was sitting on the couch, having just held a hand to her very swollen stomach, when a stabbing pain had shot through her like the devil himself was licking her insides. She grew dizzy, shaking her head furiously to rid herself of the feeling, but it wouldn't go away."_

"_I know."_

"_Holy- I'll get your stuff."_

"_No, it's alright. Let's just go. I'm worried."_

_She was surprised how calm she was. This was not labor. This is not what the mediwitches had told her to wait for. Her feeling of controlled panic slowly blossomed into genuine worry, and she doubled over as she stood, wincing from the sharp pains that were not caused by her babies' kicking. _

_And George was there, pulling on her coat, and helping her down the stairs. He was so amazing…so loyal…so-_

_It seemed like seconds later they appeared at St. Mungo's, and many pairs of hands were taking hold of her, easing her down onto a bed, away from her husband…and her boys had stopped moving inside her. Why had they not responded to her soft coos as she rubbed her stomach, watching the healers bustling around her, their kind and concerned faces swimming into hazy view around her?_

"_I need him in here-" She had whimpered softly, and he materialized at her side, his face filled with worry, and that awful helpless look of a little lost child who can't seem to locate where there are. _

"_It'll be alright." He murmured against her temple, kissing her as a healer appeared at her head, pulling out a small vile filled with Dreamless Sleep Draught. A pain rent her body like none she had imagined, and she screamed aloud as she heard hurried discussions going on above her head._

"_We've got to deliver them now, it's the only chance of saving-"_

_And then, droplets of a cold liquid were finding their way down her throat, and she heard and saw no more. _

"So…so…" she quivered, her big eyes suddenly filled with tears. "Our boys are-"

But she couldn't finish her sentence.

She screamed. She screamed so loud, people in the next rooms were probably convinced she was being tortured: and in a way, she was. An icy chill had swept across her, George held onto her as she continued to keen, rocking with her on the bed as tears dripped from her cheeks. He closed her into the fetal position, lying with her on their sides, her sobs echoing the walls around them until she found she could cry no more.

Why had this happened to them? Hadn't they been through enough? What awful force of nature was working so tirelessly against happiness, that they had experienced for so short a time? What evil hand could snatch away innocent lives?

As she lay there, weeping for her children, she became plagues with thoughts of the worst variety- was it her fault? Surely she had done something wrong during the pregnancy. She tried to push herself away from George, but he was unwavering, and held her in his strong arms as she struggled with the cruelest sense of reality.

"_Do you think you're ready?" Arthur asked his fourth son._

_George smirked and set his sights on his beautiful, pregnant wife, who had fallen asleep on the couch in the living room," I dunno, dad. Were you?"_

"_Touche." The older man laughed softly, regarding George carefully. "Well, I thought I was. Thought I handled myself pretty well with Bill, Percy, and Charlie. You two tested the limits of my sanity, though."_

"_And I'm pretty sure we never stopped doing that." George added, downing the rest of his Firewhiskey. "T's mom always used to tell her that no matter how much you _think_ you're ready, you never are."_

"_A wise woman, she must have been." _

"_Yes."_

"…_So, twins again, it is? Your mom will be overjoyed. She's out watching James while your sister and Harry have a little night out. Lord knows they deserve it." _

_There was a comfortable silence as Arthur stretched out in his chair, before standing and grabbing his son firmly by the shoulder._

"_You're a good kid." He said, his eyes searching his son's. Still, it was difficult to not see the perfect reflection of Fred, and not feel his heart break just a little more because of it. "Man, I should say. And you'll be a great father." _

"No, it's not supposed to be like this." She said after she had cried and screamed until she was dry. He stroked her hair, and she felt his warm tears on the back of her neck.

"No, it wasn't." He agreed, the weight of shock still heavy upon his chest. "But, Theresa-"

"I don't want to-"

"Please look at me."

There was so much empathy, so much love in his tone, that she found herself involuntarily turning over to face him. It reminded her of the night seemingly so long ago that they had sat in a desolate field in Belfast, as he persuaded her to come and stay a while with him. Once again, she found it impossible to meet his gaze.

"It's not all bad." He whispered, grasping the back of her head with his hand, and bringing her forehead to his. How could it be as he said? As she shook her head noncommittally, she had that awful, yet almost satisfying feeling of exhaustion after such a physical cry. She couldn't think of anything. Her mind was a fast jumble. Is this what it had felt like to George? On the day he had lost his own flesh and blood? She wanted to rend her body apart, make the pain a bit more corporeal. Deadness clouded her vision. He was speaking softly to her, stroking her matted hair. His body was warm…and she couldn't really hear the words his lips were forming.

And yet something, a tiny little phrase, caught her attention.

"He's in the nursery."

"…He." She murmured. Her eyes flickered once. Then twice. She looked at him.

"We have a son." His tone was a strange mix of mourning and wonderment. "He fought. He fought so hard. Everyone thought that the both of them were-"

He broke off, and could apparently not speak anymore.

"We have a son." She repeated. And new tears were springing to the corners of her eyes. She embraced him. Could she hold on tight enough? It seemed impossible. Her arms were around his neck, her legs wrapped around his, and her head buried deep in his shoulder. She felt like a weak animal, grasping on to its protector for dear life.

"_I'm sorry,"_ an only slightly different, soft voice whispered in her ear, and she knew with whom she was communicating. _"I'm so, so sorry…"_

She could feel his presence, the warm air that circulated around the two of them, and knew that George too could sense him. He held her close, his hands working out the tangles of her hair.

"_I'll take care of him. I'll take such good care of him. I promise. He's safe with me." _

"What should we name him?" her husband whispered, as the gentle spirit that filled the room pulsed in their blood.

"What we were always planning on." She replied, her voice coming out cracked and worn. "It has to be."

He nodded, biting his lip as his eyes met hers.

"And the other?" She added, lying softly on his chest, her breath coming in great hiccupped gasps.

"_Stay strong. I'm here with you."_

"Naturally." He started, closing his eyes, and feeling several more tears leak out from under his lashes, "if my brother and he are together up there, he should have my name."

It took several long hours for the pair to leave where they lay on the sterile hospital bed. And not for one moment did the wonderful sensation of an other-worldly presence leave them. He was there for as long as necessary, and did not abandon them as they shed more tears, not yet ready to face their family, nor to see their new baby boy. The talked, whispered, and cried. But also smiled and laughed.

"It's so strange how life and death really do go hand in hand," she said, after they had shared a small, yet raucous bout of laughter about something they had both recalled in regards to their school days. "I should not be laughing right now. But I feel like that's…how it's supposed to be. There has to be this balance." She sniffed as she softly caressed his hair, "and for those who find that balance, then happiness is not far behind."

"I love you."

"_I love you so much."_ He spoke to them.

"I love you too." She breathed, grasping his face to kiss him, and allowing the water to well in her eyes once more. "And now, I think it's time for me to see our son."

**

I think this is the second to last chapter. Next will be an epilogue. I feel this story starting to drag, and rather than continue it, I'd like to finish it before it gets old. Alright? Thanks to all who've read this and followed the characters!!


	18. Epilogue

It's been a while, but here it is. The epilogue and final chapter of The Fireworks King. Thanks for reading!

**

WHAM.

The sound echoed like a gunshot through the house, and mere seconds later, a dark-haired man bounded down the stairs, banged open a door, and shot down into the basement. He knew exactly where the sound had come from. There could only be one place, really. It's where his dad spent all his time now that mum was gone.

"Dad. DAD. Can you hear me?" He shouted as he made his way down into the basement. When he received no answer he became concerned, his brow furrowing and his heartbeat speeding up.

"Dad?"

He turned the corner and gasped. His father was on the ground, clearly having slipped from the stool at his workbench. The side of his head was bleeding, and his eyes were closed. All his life he had wished to never find himself in this position; he felt himself sink down on his knees, crawling quickly up to his fallen hero, his mouth open in silent shock.

"No…no no no, Dad, c'mon. You've got to be kidding me…" he managed to moan as he placed his father's head in his lap.

George opened his eyes. His grass green eyes. He saw the spitting image of himself so many years younger reflected before him in his son. But he had brown hair. That much was different. And he had his mother's blue eyes. His head hurt and throbbed. His vision blurred. But he could still see his boy as lights started to close in around him. Were those stars in the back of his head? He could hear music. It was beautiful!

"Fred." He smirked, reaching a weathered and weary hand up to pat his son on the cheek. "You're a good boy. How's Lydia?"

"She's fine Dad, she's great. We have to get you to Mungo's. You're losing a ton of blood." Fred's emotions betrayed him and a few tears landed on George's sweater. "What happened?"

"I'm late." He murmured, closing his eyes and lowering his hand, the last ounce of energy he had leaving him. "And she always hated it when I was late…"

"You're talking nonsense, Dad. I love you. Please-"

"Love you too, Freddie." Why was breathing so difficult? He felt like a rubber hand was pushing down on his lungs, his heart, his mouth…

"An adventure, he said!" He spoke in wonder, his eyes shooting open. He exhaled his last breath.

"DAD NO."

Gone.

The pain was gone. A brilliant white light and twinkling stars and dark heavens was all he could see. He could feel a smile on his face. Something…the sun perhaps, felt warm on his face. He closed his eyes to it. He must be traveling a very long way.

Then, grass.

He raised an eyebrow. His was lying on some spongy ground. Why could he see nothing?

He opened his eyes. A dim sky was above him, and he appeared to be in some garden. He smelled lilac and lavender. His body felt strong and supple, free from all pain and ailment. He blinked a couple times, then raised himself off the ground. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. His 80-year-old self had evaporated. He didn't feel a day over 20. He brought a hand up to his intact right ear, then another to his left. He put his hands in his face, feeling the absence of wrinkles and sagging skin. He was new.

He stood on his long legs, stretching. The garden blended into an orchard, and the sun was only just rising. What a beautiful dream! The sun was huge, and it painted the wispy clouds pink and orange. The orchard seemed to stretch on forever, and the smell of spiced oranges wafted in the air. And he had it all to himself.

"George!"

He heard her in the distance at first. It sounded like the far-off cry of a bird. But then she appeared from next to an old, twisted apple tree.

She wore a strapless dress of pale yellow, and it brushed the tops of her feet. Her long brown hair cascaded in waves down her beautiful back. Her piercing blue eyes were soft as they glanced on him, and she was smiling so radiant, it put the sunflower in her hair to shame. In her arms she carried a sleeping baby boy.

He took a step toward her, placing his hand on her soft cheek, cupping her chin and thumbing the delicate skin there. There were tears in her eyes as he kissed her gently.

"Theresa." He whispered, pressing his forehead to hers, and laying a hand on the head of the sleeping child in her arms.

"Is this-?"

"Yes." She nodded, watching as George gazed down at his little lost son who now breathed evenly in his mother's arms.

He couldn't peel his eyes away from the two of them. He felt that he could stay in this place forever, wherever it was.

"Are you real?" He asked, not wanting to find out that he was only experiencing a very vivid dream.

"Of course." She answered him, running her long fingers through his red hair. "And-"

"So'm I." another voice added loudly from beyond the great old tree. Suddenly, his brother stood next to his wife and child.

His face sparkled with merriment and laughter. He hadn't aged a second. George grabbed Fred's shoulders roughly, who only laughed as he was pulled into a tight embrace. As George finally let go of him, he said-

"There's so much to talk about."

"Luckily, we have forever to catch up." Theresa added as Fred slung an arm around her. The sun was hitting their faces now, and George stood in awe as he beheld the people with whom he would be spending a blessed eternity.

"Let's walk." Fred grinned.

And with that, the three of them meandered slowly across the orchard, their faces turned toward the beautiful sunrise.

_Fin_

**

Please read and review! More stories are formulating in my brain, mostly about the Weasleys. Stay tuned for all of them.

Glorioski


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